


Phantom's Kiss

by Batsymomma11



Series: Phantom of the Opera [1]
Category: Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 23:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15696030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Largely a re-telling of the original tale with a twist for a happy conclusive ending. Erik and Christine naturally end up together and its happily ever after scenario.





	1. When Words Become Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any of the characters.   
> I have altered the original story line to suit the ending I wanted and my own flavor has been added to each scene, making this story not canon.   
> Enjoy!

**_Christine_ **

           

I should know when to leave well enough alone. But I am unnaturally curious, my heart a thready pulse in the shell of my ears, urging my feet to follow its rapid pace onward and I strangely long to obey.

            Staring into the dark corridor that beckons as surely as if the man were summoning me with a crooked finger, I swallow stiffly, gripping the crinoline of my gown in both hands. It feels as crisp as the flicker of the torches I imagine along the tarry walls to settle the nervous flutter in my belly. It helps to slow my breathing some, but only just.

            He is back there.

            Inside the darkness.

            There is a sound that comes in warbling waves to me, the melody of which sends gooseflesh along my bared arms and I falter at the entrance, unsure if I can go through with it. What lies beyond the shelter of my dressing room? What truly hides in the darkness? Be it beast, demon, or man?

            “Christine…”

            I inhale through my nose, filling my lungs with the scent of mildew and dripping spring water until I can stand it no longer then allow an exhale. I should answer him. I will.

            “Angel…”

            He seems closer than before though I can’t see him, can’t make out the shape I have only glimpsed in my dreams. Until this moment, I am not sure if he’d existed at all in reality and seeing that he very well might, I feel a wave of uneasiness settle over me. How could I wish to join him? What insanity am I feeling that would lure me to a stranger so decidedly dark and foreboding? But I do long for him. Strangely yearn to join the ghost who has been haunting me, teaching me, and guiding me for so many years he felt more a delicate part of myself than a man. A phantom. A beautiful, musical, creature of darkness.

            I swallow again, working to get the air past my vocal chords, fighting an irrational sense of relief. Relief?

            I blink as I realize I took several steps into the corridor, leaving the warmth of my dressing room for the humid underworld my ghost occupies. The one I’ve denied for far too long.

            “Come to me.”

            I squint, startling when I finally make out the shape of a man further down the space of onyx who sits as a stiff statue of cloak and hat. Only the something white at the space of his head shines back at me, light enough in color to be seen with the scant illumination. I wonder briefly if he is truly so pale that his skin is albino in nature. But the thought scatters away from me as I take several involuntary steps towards him, closing the short distance. It draws me further from my world and nearer to his. It seems my body will obey him no matter what trails my mind finds itself on, though deep in a place that is secret to everyone, including Raoul, I wish to be nearer to Phantom. No matter that I know little of him. That he is likely a dangerous man, if he is a man at all.

            Reaching for my hand, the phantom takes it into his. Expecting his skin, I am only slightly surprised to feel the soft touch of a glove instead and I answer his light tug by following complacently at his back. It feels natural to remain silent. To say little as he’s already called to me and clearly I am answering.

            He is as tall as I’d imagined. Shoulders broad of width. Aside from such attributes and the fact that his voice bares the likeness to an angel, I know little of his appearance. His cloak brushes behind him, swishing against the plaits of my dress and I fight to keep the shiver from my frame. I am being foolish.

            He is the ghost of the opera house. He is a dangerous man.

            And yet, my feet still move and my heart still patters as a girl standing before her long time hero. In truth, he is that to me. An angel of music who has worked to cultivate my song and tone as a master musician for many long years. Though he’s never revealed himself to me in such a fashion, I feel strangely safe in his presence. Safe? I blink at the dark wet space around us and this time shiver. No…I do not feel safe _from_ him. But I am not sure if I want to.

            “Where are you taking me?”        

            He does not slow, nor does his voice appear surprised by my question, “To my home.”

            “Your home?” I ask softly, my words sounding empty and nervous.

            He turns his face a bit, giving me a small smile that tips the corner of a pair of lips I can just make out from the glow of the torch he is carrying. Though his lips look as normal as any pair might seem, they are handsome enough, save the rude interruption of a white mask that covers half the man’s face. The half now turned to me as he gives me an assessing look.

            “Yes, Christine, I live down here. Did you think I had a home in Paris? Someplace out in the wilds of the city where men roam?”

            I blink at him, watching the dance of light cast stark shadows across the white unmoving piece on his face, catching the distinct color of his almond gaze. His eyes look warm. But that is the only piece of him that does.

            Surprised at his statement, I simply shake my head, allowing our forward movement to continue until we reach a set of stairs. We take them silently to the bottom, with the phantom keeping a firm grasp on my hand, his shoes scuffing the stone as silent whispers that tickle my ears.

            There is water at the bottom.

            Gripping his hand in mine, I feel a second wave of uneasiness settle over me. A piece of myself, perhaps the more rational piece, that screams I turn and run from this figment of my imagination come to life, but I stand mute and stare at him as he turns to face me.

            The half of his face uncovered by the mask bares little markings of anything frightening, save a wicked glint to his eyes and crooked tip to his mouth. With a face living in both night and day, he looks handsome enough. At least on the half of his face he is willing to share with me. I try to picture what could be so bad he’d need to cover it. To hide it, as he so clearly does beneath the opera house and feel my nerves twist in anxiety and hideous anticipation of being allowed to remove his mask. To peel back something so private to him. After all, he’s made it clear that I am special to him, am I not? Why else risk everything to bring me here?

            “Are you scared of me Christine?”

            I don’t bother to smile or to reassure. Phantom won’t appreciate it. “Yes.”

            “I will not hurt you.”

            I frown at the waiting boat, skimming along the surface of the pearling glassy water and jerk my chin at it, “Then what do you intend to do? Why did you come for me now?”

            He frowns, his lips pulling into a thin line of irritation, “Why else do you think I would? Do you not know by now?”

            Though I have a strong inclination as to what he might be saying to me. I also feel a stronger wave of rejection fall about me in crimson waves. I do not know how I feel about him. Or Raoul, who has suspiciously arrived in equally surprising events this very night. “I do not know what you speak of.”

            Phantom shakes his head, dropping my hand to give me his back, his voice hardening, “You know I have feelings for you, do you not? After so very long…I thought you would know.”

            I stare at his shoulders, his black cloak which hides the nip of his hips and the length of his legs from me. If any other man had been so forward with me, been so well spoken of his feelings, I might have been put off. But with this man… I frown, thinking of his voice, his songs which fill my veins with heady emotions. I can scarcely call him a man. But he is one. Just a man. And I, a woman.

            “You would deny me then.”

            I shake my head, surprised at the disappointment that sparks so immediately at his dismissal. “No. Of course not.”

            He turns, raising a dark brow, the one not covered and offers his hand to me once again, drawing his black cloak open to reveal the black vest and resplendent white of his starched shirt. He looks every bit the gentleman. Every bit the harmless, chivalrous, and kind man I wish him to be. But something about the way his eyes hold mine, captures them until I tremble and wish he’d let me breathe makes me know that is no truer than my willingness to leave. I will go with him and he is no gentleman.

            Hesitantly, I take his hand, eliciting another very small smile from his lips, something that makes him look more handsome despite that I cannot see nearly enough of him. My curiosity opens wider and I feel my eyes grow heavy as he helps me to sit in the rocking lull of his boat.

            Pushing off the bottom with the long end of the boat’s oar, he inhales softly, a prequel to what I had originally hoped he’d finish. What he started in my dressing room.

            When he begins to sing, I cannot help the flutter of excitement that races through me any more than I can help enjoying a fine bubbling champagne or a rich taste of chocolate. His voice is my steady companion for the duration of our ride, a soothing and beautifully haunting refrain of love and I settle deeper into my seat, listening with rapt attention to the man who has taught me everything I know about singing.

            Reaching the end of his refrain and our short journey into a room dark enough I feel frightened once again, I am incredibly disappointed when his voice falls silent and the boat rocks up onto solid ground.

            “We are here.”

            Frowning, I nearly shriek when his hand finds mine once again and helps me to stand. Though he must have sensed how frightened I am, how my heart is racing pathetically beneath my corset, he simply guides me towards the center of the cavernous room, humming softly to the same tune he’d only just finished a moment before. I let my eyes slip closed, listening to him sing of the music of the night.

            _Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams...purge your thoughts of the life you knew before…_

My eyes flutter open to the feel of warm breath touching my cheek and candlelight flooding my vision. He’d lit the space and the room is filled with honey colored light, the smell of damp frightening underbellies long gone and I am aware all at once of the Phantom close at my back. His voice continuing to sing, though it is softer, more a lullaby than a valiant refrain and I sink into it, unable to deny the beauty of such music.

            He has a gift. He is an angel of music and I am more willing to be his pupil for however long he would have me than I ever have before.

            Drifting for a moment in his song, I think little of his arm coming around to gently hold me, as though I am precious to him. I’ve never felt more beautiful, more alive than I do in his arms and it is as he is singing to me. His words are so utterly true.

            _Let your soul take you where you long to be. Only then can you belong to me._

Do I wish to belong to him? I can feel his breath expanding his chest, the soft caress of his lips against my cheek and hair as he tells me to feel the music and I cannot deny it. There is nothing safe about him. Nothing in the very least orthodox and yet I can’t reject my innermost wish. I do wish to belong to him. At least whilst it matters to no one and nothing in this dark warmth of his home.

            When his song ends, I feel sadly bereft and oddly safe enough to grip his arm to keep it about my middle. I have no wish to end the contact he’s initiated and I am feeling decidedly languid and tired. I have performed in my very first opera as the lead and it is all catching up to me. From the whirlwind of being chosen to take the role for Carlotta to seeing my phantom…my…I hear the man at my back suck in a quick breath, his heart picking up shamelessly against my shoulder blades and I do not blame him. I feel it too.

            The strange connection we have is far stronger in person and I am simply not immune to it.

            “Are you tired?”

            I nod, forcing my mind not to think of what the others might think with my disappearance and instead savor the warmth of the phantom’s arms.

            “I have a place for you to sleep…” he pauses, his voice sounding a bit unsure, “You will be safe from me there.”

            “Safe from you?” I draw out of his arms to gaze at him, to see his face and the eyes that I will never forget now that they’ve haunted me.

            He looks down, “Yes, Christine, from me.”      

            “You would harm me?”

            Phantom’s hands fist, “Never physically.”

            “Then you would take my heart and crush it.”

            His gaze jerks to mine and I feel a wave of sadness rush over me. In his eyes, the color of which is indeed warm umber, I find the weight of a world I have never known. The loss of love that he always has felt. “You do not know me enough to understand what I mean. But I swear on my life, I would not harm you if I could help it.”

            Though his statement is still foreboding as it does not exonerate any wrong doing on his part, future or otherwise, I nod stiffly, feeling the exhaustion more heavily. He is tiring to look upon. So very mysterious and captivating but tiring. I need sleep to understand myself and then perhaps I will know what to do about the ache in my chest.

            “Thank you.”

            When I say no more and he seems reluctant to break out of our silence, I wait until he sighs and takes my hand once again, guiding me further into the now well-lit space and back into the dim hollow of what looks more of a mole’s burrow then a room. Until my shins bump into a bed frame and I catch the outline of a mattress and pillows. The comforter feels soft as silk, gentle against my flushed skin and I feel my face heat as he stands at my back, watching me examine the place he sleeps each night.

            “You sleep well I assume.”

            His voice sounds amused, “I do.”

            “Your salary must be sufficient to purchase any manner of comforts.”

            “Less than you’d think.”

            Another cryptic statement best left alone. Nodding at the opening, which is held open by thick drapes, I smile weakly, “Will you close these?”

            “Of course.”

            Phantom turns, cape and hat still firmly in place, then draws the drapes closed until blackness swims about me and swallows me whole. I ignore the sensation of spiders crawling over my skin and carefully make my way atop the bed that should have worried me. But I am too tired to think of what this could mean between us. What he might expect come morning.

I am still caught in his song of night and when my face rests against the silk of his sheets and the smell of men’s French aftershave meets my nose I smile as a little girl might with a new toy. I am too pleased with him to care. He has sung for me, brought me to his home and now…he is being a gentleman and letting me sleep. I will worry about the details of it later. For now, my angel of music will occupy my dreams.

 

**_Phantom_ **

****

            Christine is still sleeping. Ever the peaceful little girl, though clearly no longer in a girl’s body. She is more woman than I’ve dared to ever bring in my home before and I find myself completely on edge.

            Notes that should normally flow from me, seem stilted, as guarded as my heart feels in the cage of my ribs. I press my fingers into the ivory keys and they are as cold as the common draft which chills the cavern of my musical auditorium. Frowning, I hear the discordant chord and wish I could push Christine out of my mind as easily as she seems to have done whilst lying in my bed. My sheets…

            My face heats at the picture of her sprawled about a place I’ve imagined her more than once and I angrily slam both hands into the keys sending the painful sound of the organ’s pipes into the air. I cringe, jerking back from the keys as if they are flaming tongues rather than the keys of one of my prized possessions.

              It is not for the first time I wish my hearing were not so acute. That I wish my perfect pitch did not prevail so strongly within my mind that even the slightest error upon the organ or in my vocal exercises causes such pain in my ears. Sighing, I step away from the keys enough to allow a slip of space between my hips and the ivory and find that the curtains of my bedchamber are still closed.

            I am more than ready to admit I am being childish. Wishing her awake when it has only been a mere five hours. But I have been restless, desperate to see her again, to assure myself she is still here. That I did exactly as I had planned.

            I am a fool for bringing her here.

            “Do you always slam the keys on such a lovely instrument when you’re angry?”

            I scarcely manage to halt the jolt of electricity that shoots through my middle and I keep my back to the woman I’d thought asleep, forcing my posture to remain relaxed.

            “As a matter of fact, yes,” I answer as honestly as I can. Christine need not know the reason why I was angry.

            I can hear her feet moving, the pad of bare feet moving across cool stone and I feel a small wedge of regret at not having brought slippers for her. The thought had honestly not crossed my mind as I’d been entranced by her flawless image in the mirror of her dressing room. She moves to the side of me and I risk meeting her gaze, hoping she doesn’t see the desperation clinging to my eyes. If I could have her by my side in the next moments, I would.

            “Did you sleep well?”

            She nods, her hair falling over a robe-clad shoulder and my eyes follow the motion unable to ignore the loveliness of such lustrous auburn curls.

            “What were you working on?”

            I glance back to my organ and frown, “I’m not sure.”

            She smiles at me, something incredibly sweet about the action considering she is doing it whilst looking at me. At my face. Does she see me the way I see her? I think it not likely, but a man such as I has only dreams.

            “So, what now?” she asks as she moves to trace a finger down the iron curve of a candle’s housing. I watch the movement, asking myself the same question, hearing the sound of a harmony build and then crescendo into a haunting reprise before fading away. All of it in the span of a few seconds, a breath, a heartbeat, and then a dance of soft blue eyes.

            Soft blue eyes which are holding mine captive, forcing me to feel unsure and so incredibly shy I wish I could hide further behind the porcelain of my mask.

            “I…I don’t know.”

            “You mean you didn’t plan this? Didn’t know what you were going to do after you came for me?”

            I shake my head, “I’ve been planning this since I dreamed of you singing atop the stage as you did this night. But I never thought…” I stop seeing her eyes dance over my frame, something which had previously been covered in a dark cloak and I swallow stiffly, “I never thought you would come with me.”

            “You didn’t?”

            She seems so surprised by my admission that I stare a moment at her, daring to believe she truly cares and then I remember that she has not seen me. Not really. She sees what I want her to see. Christine hears my voice and sees my tuxedo clad body, the body of a man who has spent countless hours in solitary hell. I spend my time lost above a cloud of symphonies and daydreams or punishing my body through physical routines that burn the garish light of day in favor of the beauty of the night.

            “No.”

            Christine is watching me, but her eyes don’t meet mine this time, they see my mask and I feel my hands clench into fists, my stomach hollow painfully. The daydream was always meant to end in favor of reality. I just hadn’t planned on it happening so soon.

            “Can I see?”

            I don’t need to clarify what she means. I can already feel her eyes undressing the disguise that feels so apart of me that it feels painful to remove it. “You don’t really want to.”

            “I do.”

            I frown at her, feeling my heart skip about in my chest, my hands tighten further, “Christine…”

            She moves towards me, so very close that I fear she’ll hear my how loudly my heart is beating, how badly my breath is shaking. With a steadier hand than mine, she reaches up to my face, fingers curving around the edge of the mask and I feel my eyes slam closed as suddenly cool air rushes over my skin.

            In my worst nightmares, there is always this same moment, a sucking sensation where she truly sees me and reacts, just the way she is now.

            I take in a panicked breath, backing away as she stares wide-eyed, horror marking her features so deeply that I slam into a candelabra and nearly topple over backwards.

            She despises me.

            I disgust her.

            Christine’s lips, nearly rose red curl in a cry of fear and she too has moved several paces away from me and is curling in upon herself. I feel something inside of me shrivel and my right hand goes to cover the deformity given by no fault of mine to my face. The tissue feels curved and false beneath my fingers, an abomination and I feel a mixture of anger and pain lance through me. I should have known she would see me this way. That she would feel fear and cower in my hideous presence.

            “Get back,” I hiss, spinning away from her, giving her my back. I put any amount of distance I can between myself and the crystalline tears which fill her eyes as I crash into another candelabra and I fling it to the ground in rage.

            With the fall of the candles into the warm green pool of water at my feet, I only feel the chasm of anger widen and I toss my book of unfinished compositions to the ground. The pages flutter about as Christmas snow and I feel a scream build in the back of my throat far more volatile than the still disgusted look on Christine’s face. I shall never forget it. It feels so much worse than my nightmares.

            She’s on her knees, backing away from me, tears falling down the porcelain of her cheeks and I can do nothing save fall to my own knees and beg her to see me. To see the man beyond the ugliness.

            I inch towards her, a hitch breeding such tightness in my throat I wonder if tears may betray me and when she remains fixed in her position I dare to hope she will try. Try for me at least. Her beloved teacher.

            “Christine…it is not as bad as it looks. Things can change in time.”

            She shakes her head, “How could it? You are…”

            I stare at her a moment, my hand fisting into the lapels of my jacket, the fabric feeling not nearly thick enough to protect me from her scorn. “Love can be born from fear.”

            Christine’s eyes flutter closed and several more tears steadily make their way down her cheeks. She looks so very fragile sitting on the stony floor, hands pressed to her sides, legs curled under her. I should never have let my guard down so easily with her and allowed her to see me so soon. It had been too early to foster something save infatuation. Even if she did love me…I frown, thinking of what might become of my heart if she does not take it. I may not survive it.

“Take me back home Phantom.”

            I am but a foot away now and I stifle the urge to draw her into my arms, to remind her of the feel of our bodies so very near and instead settle a hand on her knee. To her credit, she does not tear away from me, but studies me in a manner that rekindles the dangerous flare of hope I’d given too much life to already. I am too ugly for something so beautiful and yet I could not deny myself this even if it were to mean my life. I must be with her. She must sing my music, else there is little reason to pen the notes from my mind.

            “Erik, please, my name is Erik,” my voice sounds stronger, less pathetic and a wave of steel forges my resignation. I will not so easily let her see the space of madness within me again.

            Christine watches me a moment, her lashes fluttering closed over the blue of her eyes, “Erik is a man’s name.”

            I jerk as if she’s slapped me, “I _am_ a man. Can you…” I find my hand is gripping her knee too hard and I try to loosen it, “Can you not see that? This thing, which lives upon my skin is merely a covering. Beneath it, I am but skin and bones. Blood that rushes as yours does beneath flesh that longs for the very same things.”

            Her mouth parts as if to refute me, then her eyes are flowing over my frame again, heating my skin to the point I ache and finally she nods, “Yes. I can see you.”

            Whether she means the way I wish it or not, I nod knowing she is on the brink of running from me, “I should take you back.”

            Without argument, though I long for her to rail against me and beg to remain here, she rises with my help and we move wordlessly to the boat. At least for the time being, our time has ended. I should know that this is what needs to happen. But I am a fool to feel my heart clench as we push out into the lake and a sorrowful melody itches at my lips for release. Though I know she will not mind to hear it, there is something so personal about my pain being spoken in song that I nearly squelch the urge to sing, something that would near cause me physical agony.

            But when the glow of candles fades at my back, I am helpless to stop the tenor of my voice from breaking the seal on my lips and I close my eyes in surrender of it. Its melody is a balm to the raw places that have been opened.

              If Christine notices the tremble in my song, she does not show it and I block her haunting image with the protection of darkness until her voice joins mine and I nearly drop the oar in my hands. This space, this place where her voice is meeting mine, it is where I belong. Nowhere else.


	2. Raoul's Pledge

**_Christine_ **

****

            It has been a week since I’ve seen him. Seen the phantom…Erik, as he’d asked me to call him. Over the last six years of studying and pushing my voice to its very edges, he has never requested this of me. He’d seemed a corporeal haze that sang and urged with a tenderness that near took my breath away only to angrily grow weary of my lack of improvement in the next. We have spent our nights with a wall between us, a grate in the opera house’s lower belly where I would go to perform a vigil over my father’s long dead spirit. For a time, I entertained the notion of the phantom being my father.

            That was until I heard him sing words that beckoned passion, love and dangerous romance rather than simple arias. And I had responded the way a woman does to a man. I’d known since then; the angel was something else entirely to me.

            I stare at the wall of my dressing room, wondering if he will stay true to his demands that I sing the lead this night. Upon my return, the managers had informed me I was to take the role of a page boy, who has a non-speaking role. I don’t in truth mind, but there is a greater part myself that is horrendously disappointed I will not be singing for _him_ this night.

            Erik. Phantom.

            His name swings in a pendulum in my mind as if it cannot decide which it prefers. His voice and touch is Erik, but his disfigurement is phantom. A frightening apparition of night that I cannot banish from my dreams even if I’d hoped to. Though each night, it seems he becomes less frightening in my sleep and more shamefully tempting. A man wearing naught save his voice and skin who closes the drapes to his bedchamber with me inside.

            I blink, glancing away from the mirror atop my dressing table and feel shame wash over me. I should not be thinking of a man in such a way, particularly one who is not ever to be my husband. Not the way Raoul may well be.

            “Christine.”

            I startle, pressing a hand to my throat as a guilty flush rises in my cheeks. Raoul cannot possible know what thoughts I have been entertaining. Though he, nor any other, apparently believes my tale of having ventured beneath the house with the phantom. I know the truth of it. It was no dream, no nightmare. He is real and though he has been disappointingly silent with me, he is there, always a breath away inside my mind.

            “I did not expect you.”

            He smiles at me, blue eyes bright with mischief as he finds his way over to me and kneels beside me. Our faces match in beauty and lightness in the reflective surface and I smile at his reflection.

            “You aren’t still scared are you?”

            I frown at him, “I am not scared.”

            “No?” he teases, giving my knee a pinch. It doesn’t surprise me to feel no pulsating need at his touch. Not the way I had when Erik had gripped my knee, his forceful fingertips digging into the muscle. But it matters little. I deeply care for Raoul, always have and always will and it is nothing so paltry as my infatuation with the phantom.

            “I am surprised you think me so feeble.”

            His eyes narrow upon me, “Did you not claim the opera ghost had taken you to his lair? Serenaded you and revealed his hideous face to you?”

            I stare at him a moment, disheartened by his lack of belief then shake my head, “I suppose it did sound rather frightful and foolish.”

            “It did. But it matters little now. You are safe. There is nothing in the least to fear and now might we put this opera ghost behind us?”

            I think of tonight’s performance and wonder if I will ever be able to put him behind me as Raoul wishes. I think not. But I will do my best.

            “Yes, of course.”

            “Good,” his smile widens, the color of his eyes lightening to sky blue and I feel a small flicker of something I’d wished for. Want. He is a handsome man with a fair voice who though he does not care for music as I do, is content to please me through watching my performances and giving wonderful comments afterwards. I could be happy with him and it pleases me to banish any disturbing alternatives to such.

            Pressing a light kiss to my knuckles, he stands once more, looking austere in his tuxedo and I study the line of his strong neck, his broad shoulders and think him very well built. Though there is a small niggling place inside my mind where it conjures a more compelling though far unsuitable image of a man’s body in black and white. The sweep of clean lines and a small gold chain disappearing into a pocket watch in his vest. Though both men wear nearly the same attire I think phantom’s shoulders are a bit wider, his height a bit taller and his waist the barest bit more narrow. Will he ever fade from me? Ever leave me be?

            “Christine?”

            I blink, bringing my mind out of phantom’s hold a moment to look at Raoul. “I’m terribly sorry Raoul. I’m merely tired. It was late night of rehearsing.”

            “You don’t sing tonight though…”

            I nod, unwilling to admit I had gone to the place of my vigil in a moment of weakness looking for my angel. That place still feels sacred to me despite what I now know of him now.

            “No. But I am still needed as the pageboy.”

            He nods, “Of course. Shall I escort you?”

            I accept his elbow with little more than a parting glance at my white visage. The smear of Victorian paint feels thick atop my cheeks and I hope that phantom will not come this night. I think of his disappointment when I make mistakes, when my voice ceases to satisfy him fully and he rages against the wall and grate that separates us during the hours of vocal practice. Though I have never feared for my safety, there is a small wedge of unease that filters through me at the prospect of him being disobeyed now. I have never dared such, as though a place of me has always known not to cross that boundary with him.

            Tonight will be my first act of rebellion. My first tearing from his protective wings and I do not relish it.

 

**_Phantom_ **

****

            She is not singing.

            I can feel the bitter taste of betrayal in the back of my throat, something so very unwelcome considering the raging headache that blossoms at the base of my skull and yet, I welcome the surge of reality. Christine is not mine. Though in my heart and mind, she feels it, she is not.

            I squint, making out the set beneath my position atop the catwalks and I feel an irrational wave of recklessness roll over me as Carlotta’s voice misses the mark by a hair and hits a flat C rather than the open and soaring one she is supposed to fly to.

            Fools. All of them.

            I grasp the railing under my gloved hands, willing it to meld to me, to keep me from doing anything foolish and reckless but all I see is shades of crimson and it reminds me of the blood I should be due.

            I built this opera house. Designed it. Orchestrated its pieces of timber into the masterpiece it now stands as, from the sweat of my brow and the ache of my back and yet these fools refuse to acknowledge me. Not only with simple requests being denied but my long overdue salary.

            I watch another moment as Carlotta places a fan before she and Christine and plays at stealing kisses amidst a roar of laughter from the audience and my mind is made up. I will do this one thing, this one little act of vengeance and then return to my pit to mourn what is slipping from me.

            Stealing down the catwalk, keeping my eyes on the flurry of movement beneath, I move so quietly that not even the stagehands notice my descent. When my boots touch the floor, I feel the adrenaline flicker through my veins and I smile in excitement. I have never shied away from something forbidden, though clearly that has not always served me well. When I reach the small table housing bottles of drink for the cast at stage left, I separate Carlotta’s flimsy throat spray from the pack and replace it with my own special concoction. It pleases me immensely to imagine her using it.

            Slipping back into the shadows I am surprised when I catch the notice of a particularly greasy man, whom I’ve seen on more than one occasion spying on the women’s dressing room. I’ve no doubt he has acted upon his wishes with several of the young ballerinas, though it disgusts me to think it. He is a vulgar sort, the kind that has no place working with women of any virtue. Women like Christine. Daring him to come for me, I level him with an unrepentant stare, straightening until it is clear I have no intention of running.

            Though he falters a moment, I see him blink several times in decision.

            Then it is to be a chase.

            Darting from stage left, I move back up the catwalk with the ease of man well versed in ample exercise. My cohort struggles to do the same, though he gives a valiant effort in pursuing me.

            Certain I can outrun him, I slow enough to watch the debacle which is sure to unfold beneath our feet and feel not one ounce of pity as I interrupt their performance.

            “Did I not instruct that box five was to be left empty?”

            My voice is a startling baritone to the arch of the ceiling and it echoes into the auditorium with ease and command. If I am not mistaken I see the infuriating shape of Raoul, Christine’s childhood friend, sitting in my proper place and I fight a wave of uncertainty at my actions. I am playing the fool. The scorned foolish lover who has no claim over either Christine’s body or heart, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

            When the flustered crew begins again, I know that Carlotta has sealed her fate. She went to the side of the stage to wet her likely dry mouth and has tasted my poison. Her voice will do as my will commands now and all will hear her as I do. As a toad.

            Just as I am ready to leave this farce of an opera behind and return to where I belong, the stagehand has found me. He stares at me across the expanse of catwalk, his lips tugging into a grimace as I offer a smile. I shouldn’t tease and yet, I do. I suppose this is where souls go, souls that have been pushed too far and I am certainly one of those.

            Carlotta’s voice screeches as a flattened cat and I cannot stop the chuckle of glee from breaking past my smile. The only thing that would make this moment more pleasurable is perhaps the disappearance of the stagehand who has yet to work up the courage to come across the catwalk for me, but it won’t be long now. I’ll be forced to do something about him. He should not have followed me.

            Another perilous attempt at singing floats up to me and though my skin flushes with gooseflesh and my head throbs in vicious opposition to her squabbling noises I laugh again, gripping the railing to keep myself from falling over the rope at the hysteria floating over me. I am enjoying this more than I should.

            “Devil,” the stagehand hisses at me.

            I blink, pulled from my humorous moment with the reluctance of a man leaving his lover’s embrace and find my eyes meeting the cold set of those belonging to the stagehand. So he’s made his decision. He will try to subdue me. Perhaps kill me.

            I wish I don’t feel the flare of something decidedly disgusting and vile as my excitement in possibly ending the man, but I do and I fight a wave of nausea at the prospect. I am what I am. There is naught to do about such.

            Playing a game of cat and mouse, I jostle the catwalk and watch as the man falters in step, swirling awkwardly about the thin place he stands before lunging for me. I step back, allowing him to fall on his face before jumping out of reach by the strength of my arms on the ropes overhead. I land at his feet with the dexterity taught me in my years of circus torture and I grasp the man’s ankle jerking him closer to me, whilst relieving the rafters of a thickly braded rope.

            I’ve never killed a man before, but the idea of doing so now, particularly with this wretched excuse for a man is far too thrilling and I contemplate the possibility for several long moments before settling on the idea of tying him up instead. It is more honorable to do such, though I wish something far from honorable.

            The man has other ideas.

            Likely afraid, as any man ought to be of me, and equally enraged at my capture of him, he surprises me with a stinging jab to my face and I fall backwards, nearly losing my mask. My weight swings the catwalk enough, for several seconds I lay still, thinking it may send us both to our deaths as it falls to the stage. But my fears are short lived as the stage hand jumps atop my chest, pinning me to the two wood planks beneath and I gasp at the loss of air. This is not going as planned.

            I begin to regret my moment of kindness towards him in not killing him as he takes the opportunity given him and wraps both of his grubby hands about my throat.

            A dark, twisted, and discordant melody breaks through my mind as his breath grates harshly over my ears and across my skin. I feel revulsion billow in waves with the melody, desperate to be rid of both. Him and it. I don’t want them. Either of them.

            Bucking as my air slacks to near morsels, I realize the stage hand is laughing at me. He is pleased to be taking my life. As pleased as I might have been had our positions been reversed. As darkness threatens at the corners of my vision and I begin to fear the last thing I will see before death takes me is this horrid creature above me with the sound of a chilling symphonic tune playing as my own personal death march, I feel the frays of a rope at my fingertips.

            Hope flares within me and the melody which I had been unable to stop, as it often happens, changes keys, rises as a great phoenix and soars into something less volatile but equally haunting. Words come to mind as my fingers wrap about the rope and I work to keep my heart in check. The stage hand is still bent on squeezing the life from me, though he is tiring and I cannot afford to be distracted.

            _Past the point of no return. No backward glances._

I startle at the lyrics that rise in my mind as they come in Christine’s voice. So lovely, so very beautiful that I nearly wish I did not have to taint them with this moment.       

            Slinging the rope about the stagehand’s neck, I cinch it tight, using what skills I’ve gained in tying knots to know this one is hangman’s noose. He is surprised enough to release my throbbing throat and I buck back again with my hips, sending him toppling off of me but not far enough to fall from the catwalk.

            This time, I do not hesitate. I stare into his still cold gaze, his sweat slicked face which is covered in dribbles of spit and beard from his exertion and he knows I will kill him. I don’t care.

            I kick him hard about the middle. He flies from the catwalk to the center of the stage in a sickening snap and his neck breaks upon the taut rope. Still gasping for breath, I crawl rapidly to the end of the catwalk, not daring to look down on my handiwork. They will assume I did this as punishment. It will look badly for me.

            I think of Christine and her fear of me already and my heart squeezes in regret, though I can’t regret not dying. I wasn’t ready. Not yet.

            Making it to the door I’ve used countless times to reach the opera house roof, I scramble to the welcoming embrace of chilly snow bitten air and slam its frame at my back, sealing myself outside from the screams of terror filling the auditorium.

 

**_Christine_ **

****

            He killed him. He killed the stagehand.

            Flying away from the stage and the dangling feet that terrorize me, I race to the cloak that seems as familiar as this path I’m taking unbidden and I hardly recognize Raoul’s face as he chases after me.

            “Christine! Wait!”

            I cast a glance over my shoulder, feeling the sting of tears rush to my eyes and I keep moving, unable to stop myself. I need the air. I need a moment to process what just happened, what the phantom just did.

            My heart feels as though he has broken it. Shattered the line of flickering love that I could not break before and I feel horrendously weak.

            I had never thought him capable of this. Of petty murder. But he had proven me wrong, shown himself to be even more a villain than I’d ever expected and it scalds me to realize I had softened towards him. I had been thinking of him as a possibility. Now that part of me must die and any hopes of claiming him as my own must too.

            When Raoul follows me to the roof and I break into the frigid open of untouched snow, I stop at the center of it, spinning to face Raoul. He looks so confused and frightened for me, his eyes dancing over my frame with the speed of a man checking for injuries. But he doesn’t understand. The injury is inside and it is far more painful than any physical wound.

            “Raoul he’ll come for me.”

            He shakes his head, “Who?”

            “The phantom,” I feel my voice waver and I suck in a terrified breath, thinking of ever facing him again. He’d had such kind and warm eyes. I had been fooled into thinking them as kind as his soul.

            “There is no phantom of the opera. Christine…you aren’t making any sense.”

            “But I am Raoul, if you would only just listen,” I swirl away from him, my cloak taking snow with me and I suddenly feel _him_ here with me. Fear and anticipation leak in equal parts inside of me and I shiver uncontrollably, unsure of what I might do if he reveals himself. Is he even here? Or is it all inside of my mind?

            “I am listening and you are not making sense.”

            I shake my head, “He lives in such darkness. His mind a twisted place of deceit and yet…” I think of his eyes and my heart softens inexplicably, “in his eyes live pain that is far too great for one man to bear.”

            Raoul is looking at me as though I’ve said something foolish and I blink at him, struggling to bring myself back to him. “There is no phantom Christine. It was a dream. A frightening dream, but it’s over.”

            “And the man who was hung?”

            He frowns at me, “Darling, I don’t know what happened tonight, but I doubt it was a figment of your imagination. It was tragic, as it likely happened due to the man’s own state of mind, but I doubt your dreams can commit murder. No matter how real they feel.”

            I wish he would believe me, but none save myself have seen him. Not even Madame Giry claims to have lain eyes on the man. It makes me question my own thin hold on my sanity and I wish to cry in defeat.

            “No more talk of darkness. I’m here, right here beside you.”

            I blink away the sheen of tears, fisting great handfuls of my cloak to keep from shaking. I am desperate to hold onto something, anything real. Raoul. “Will you always be? To guard me and guide me?”

            Raoul does not look surprised at my forward words and he smiles softly, his face so warm in this frozen night that I lean close to him, allowing the feel of his fingers to touch my neck, draw me near. I hear the phantom’s gentle song rush to my ears and I stiffen, pressing my face to Raoul’s chest, hearing his heart instead of the man who haunts me.

            “I will always protect you Christine. There is nothing to fear.”

            When I remain silent, but do not pull away from him, he seems to take it as invitation to continue and though I know what is about to come, there is a sliver of something sad that echoes within me.

            “Will you marry me Christine? Allow me to share this life and love with you?”

            There should have been more hesitation on my part. More thought behind my answer and motives considering I am still running high on such fear and disappointment from this night, but instead, I answer simply with a kiss.

            Raoul’s lips are hesitant at first, surprised by my show of physical affection but then they quickly turn urgent and I feel for the first time, something beyond simple enjoyment. I feel excitement. Joy.

            I will marry this man, this gentleman and be happy.

            I am nearly breathless when he pulls away finally and I find I am in no mood to end the feeling of elation. I kiss him again and again, desperate to keep hold of my slowly fleeting sense of peace. Why is it leaving me? Why am I not as pleased as I should be?

            “Order your fine horses Raoul. Ready everything.”

            He laughs at me, pressing a kiss to my forehead, “We will be wed soon enough. I love you Christine.”

            Something extraordinarily sour bitters my reply before I can answer and I realize it is him. The phantom who has garnered my trust and love and yet he does not deserve it. Not when he is as foul as sin. Darkness and evil.

            Looking down so Raoul will not see the regret, I answer with as much feeling as I can. For if not love, I will feel it soon. It just needs time. “And I love you.”

 

**_Phantom_ **

****

Never could such words hurt me so badly.

            I press my eyes closed against the sound of the whispered promises, the tender touch of lips which I should not be able to hear across this cursed rooftop and pray for mercy. I wish God to have mercy on me and simply kill me.

            I have survived this long on the scraps He has afforded me of human affection but I do not think I can survive this. At least, I don’t wish to.

            When I hear Christine whisper the words I’ve longed to hear, knowing she thinks me a murderer, feels as though I’ve betrayed her, I feel the tears press angrily at the backs of my eyes. Unable to stop them, I inhale softly, pressing my lips together to keep from interrupting them. To keep from charging out onto the rooftop to tear Raoul from the woman who was supposed to love me until death tore us asunder.

            But it seems she has given up me.

            Dear Lord, not this. Not this special thing that belongs to her and I. I jerk into the stony gargoyle at my back, pain splintering over my skull when I hear it. Her voice. She is singing. To him.

            Revulsion blooms its ugly bud in my belly and I bite my lip hard enough I taste blood as tears find their mark down my cheeks and over my chin. I have never hated myself more, never hated my lot in life more than this very moment. I try to stifle the pain with reason but only manage to feel horror and disenchantment. It’s over.

             But it only seems to get worse. More punishing, as Raoul’s voice joins hers and they stand atop the roof, singing as a pair of pretty birds, wrapped in a warm embrace. Jealously stabs into the revulsion and I clamp both hands over my ears to stifle them out. I desperately wish to run, to escape them in my tomb beneath all of this but they are in my pathway and there is no way out without being seen. So I must suffer their loving moment as witness.

            Blessedly, only a handful of minutes later Raoul suggests they leave and warm themselves inside. I dare not think of how they might find warmth it will drive me to madness.

            “Dear Christine…” I whisper into a cloud of steam. My tears have dried as has my humanity. It’s gone. Shriveled under the weight of my actions this night where I took the life of my first man because I dared to live. Then crushed into ashes as I witnessed it die beneath the lips of another man.

            “It is war on you both then.”

            Though I feel the smallest bit of regret at the finality of my statement it feels far better than lying about waiting for my end. If it is all to end, then it is going to end on my terms.


	3. Do We Dare?

**_Christine_ **

****

            I’ve not been wearing the engagement ring Raoul gave me. It feels a heavy ballast around my neck on the simple gold chain, as I study the trail of snow down the window panes and wish it were not the night of the masquerade ball. But it is.

            I am not ready to face to the world this night.

            Though it has been nearly three months since phantom has come to me, regardless of my visiting our hiding place, I ache with loss for him still. Something that has blossomed with each day into a deeper shade of blue. He is gone from me. As if he knows the great secret I have kept from everyone, despite Raoul’s protestations and I wonder how it feels as though I’ve done something wrong.

            I have not. Phantom is the man who murdered. Who grew petty and angry. Ill-tempered as he is prone and was not pleased when his orders were not obeyed. No matter how badly I wish to defend him, I cannot and neither has Raoul understood my distance as I struggle to overcome my feelings. Such complicated feelings.

            “We should be going.”

            I glance away from the promenade of winter and smile at Raoul. He has come to take me down to the flush of music and dance. I can hear the hum of it through the floor and it warms a place inside of my belly to imagine being surrounded by it all. I hope very much it will ward off the chill of this night.

            “Yes, we should.”

            Raoul looks at my dress, his eyes lightening as they go appreciatively over the curves of it before settling on my neck, “Why do you wear that on your neck? Why hide it?”

            “We’ve discussed this before Raoul.”

            He frowns, irritation marking his brow, “And I still don’t understand your reasoning for wanting to keep it secret any more than I did the last time. Is it a crime to wear a memento of our love?”

            I shake my head no automatically, but a strand of hollow chord echoing inside me answers in opposition. _Yes. It’s a crime. You promised your heart somewhere else and it resides there still._

I nearly wince at the softness of the rebuke as it comes to me not in my voice, but that of Erik’s. The phantom’s.

            I feel his pain and disappointment in me as a second skin and I wriggle my shoulders to be rid of the sensation. “Let’s not argue.”

            He assesses me another moment then sighs, “Yes, let’s not argue. A party awaits us and we should enjoy. Don’t you agree?”

            “Absolutely.”

            Taking the stairs at a fast clip, both of us feeling propelled by the motion of the excitement we’re entering, we come upon the party with a rustle of skirts and shoes.

            It is stunning.

            Hardly resembling the opera house in its decorated splendor, the managers have truly outdone themselves and I stare up at the ceiling in awe. There is gold streamers, cream lace and candles to light every inch of the space in warm radiating waves. I feel the heat on my skin at once from the dancers and a fever of anticipation rushes over me. Grasping Raoul’s hand, I tug at him, eager to join the dancers in celebration. There is much to celebrate. A new chandelier to replace the old that had mysteriously fallen and successful performances that have benefitted us all.

            “Come Raoul, let us dance with them!”

            He smiles brightly, following as willing participant until we are facing each other, our hands clasped and feet gliding us over marble and notes of masquerade. For several minutes, I let myself go, spinning, twisting and dipping until I feel breathless and light as a summer’s cloud. Raoul is right here with me, his face equally pink, eyes crinkled in laughter and I think that in this moment, it will all be fine. I will forget the phantom ever existed and I will be content without him. With this handsome man who is dancing me across the floor and making me laugh, I will make my life.

            But something is ruining the music, drawing down from its flight to a deep dark drone and I stumble, twisting to see the source of the music’s plight.

            Searching around the spacious ballroom, my eyes land on a red garbed figure and I blanch in surprise. When I turn to grasp Raul’s hand, he is not there and I stand before the man elegantly descending the stairs with something similar to fear. Though not quite.

            Phantom.

            He has come for me.

            “Why so silent?” he offers stiffly, his voice a sweet tug at my middle and I feel further unsettled at my body’s betrayal. I have missed him, immensely.

            Seeing him stand so regal, shoulders back, red cape billowing over one shoulder amidst the finery of a jacket trimmed in gold and black, I swallow with difficulty. He is a sight to behold. Particularly as his white half mask is missing in favor of a truly frightening skeleton apparition he’s fixed to the entirety of his upper face. Only his lips and jaw are visible with the sweet umber of his eyes encircled in black paint.

            He had meant to be frightening. But I am more than a little ashamed to be one of the only people leaning towards him, straining to hear what he might say next rather than shrinking away.

            However, this is not my first time seeing him. And for once, I feel the slightest bit vindicated that they will all be forced to believe me now.

            “Did you think that I had gone?”

            His question is left unanswered, though I know many did believe him missing. It is clear he was merely planning a revival of which he could exact revenge upon us. I see his eyes fall to the necklace about my neck and for a brief second I think I see pain in his gaze but then it is gone. Too quickly replaced by anger.

            Shoving back his cape, he tosses a black leather binder to the ground, spilling the innards of the package as if it were an animal burst open and he bares his teeth, “I have written you an opera.”

            The managers stare at him, not a soul daring to move. To breathe.

            Where did Raoul go? Should he not be here, beside me now? Protecting me?

            An irrational bit of myself hopes he does not return in time before the phantom whisks me away before the stronger part of me remembers he murdered a man not three feet from where I stood. I shiver, watching him another moment, unable to take my eyes from his.

            “You will place miss Daae as the lead and you will perform this as stated. No deviations. No slip-ups. I will not tolerate Carlotta strutting across the stage any longer,” he lifts his chin, defiance marking his posture, “And if you think a man hanging was poor for your opera, imagine what worse events might ail this house if you disobey me again.”

            I feel my mouth open in retort then think better of it and close it. He is so very on edge, I can see the veins standing out on his neck as he is speaking, see the grip of anger he has on his control and I don’t wish to break him.

            But he is moving towards me now, his lips pulling into a scowl so dark I wonder what hides behind his eyes. What festers in his heart to make him look so full of hatred in my direction and when I finally realize where he is looking once again, my heart plummets. He must know. There is no other explanation for the conflict wavering in the tick of his hand that curls the thin air as he watches me.

            Further solidifying this idea that he is aware of my secret engagement, phantom closes the space between us, severing any breath from my lungs with that same tremulous hand. It halts just above the glinting gold chain where the evidence of my betrayal lies as if it were too disgusting to touch. I have never felt more disappointed in myself.

            “You don’t wear it on your finger then?”

            I stare at him, surprised by the softness of his voice now but am entirely unprepared for the capture I feel. He is holding me effortlessly, not with touch, but by gaze alone and I cannot look away even if I tried. My heart throbs beneath my breast bone, reaching up to meet his awaiting hand, betraying me and the thin gold band on my neck and I am helpless but to stand before him and do nothing. Say nothing.

            His eyes are light as whiskey, lips softer when he grasps the chain and plucks the ring from its hiding spot, revealing the glinting diamond to the crowded room of onlookers. I had forgotten we were watched. “There is hope for us then.”

            I blink, “Erik…”

            Phantom looks so startled at his own name that he nearly misses the flicker of movement in the corner of the room. But only nearly. Raoul has returned and he is carrying his long sword, a weapon brandishing in his hand. It seems by the fire in his gaze, that he intends to finally believe me and dispatch of my angel.

            I cast a pleading glance to phantom, fear curdling in my stomach for both phantom and Raoul. If they duel, there is no telling who would win, but I would have neither grievously injured. And from their terrifying gazes which are locked as prey and predator, they would think far differently than me.

            “Please. Go.”

            Phantom’s eyes find mine again, though reluctantly, and he lifts his chin, anger flaring in his gaze once more. “You would protect him.”

            “Yes, I care for him--.”

            He hisses, grasping the chain in his gloved hand interrupting my answer with a thick jerk. There is a stark pierce of stinging flesh as it breaks from my neck and he takes the engagement ring Raoul gave me with a feral cry of rage. I doubt any can hear the agony in it. But I do and I feel equal parts fear and sorrow in response to it.

            Before Raoul can reach phantom it’s too late. He has already disappeared through a trap door in the floor, something that is not surprising as a long time past, he’d told me of his building the opera house. It is little wonder he finds the management and its dealings frustrating.

            “Did he hurt you?” Raoul is at my elbow, his face red and he looks very upset. With him or me, I can’t tell.

            “Of course not.”

            Raoul blinks down at me, “The man is a monster.”

            I don’t disagree, though not because I think him right and it is startling to realize it. I no longer think phantom capable of it. Of murder. And I certainly don’t think him a monster. But it terrifies me to comprehend it.

            All it took was seeing him again, of hearing phantom’s voice and watching his eyes look beyond mine, into the depths of my soul, to know it. I love him and I doubt I will be able to stop.

            “Come, let me find you something warm to drink, you look pale. Then we need to speak of this phantom.”

 

**_***_ **

            I am torn between a love that is and a love that could be and I feel my heart splitting in my chest as I kick both heels into the snorting beast beneath me. He is as sure footed along the morning packed snow as I wish to be and I grip his reins fiercely in my icy fingers, desperate to clear my head.

            They all wish me to sing for him. To sing for phantom.

            I blink back a spray of tears thinking of what it will mean to do this and I wish to lean over the dappled horse’s neck and retch into the snow. Though every ounce of my willpower wishes to deny his hold over me, his love and song that sways my heart, I cannot. If I sing as Raoul above all others has insisted, the phantom will come to hear me sing and when he does, it will be a merciless trap. One in which I will play the turncoat and betray him forever. He will never forgive such a cruelty.

            I bite back a sob as the gates of a familiar place rise in the distance, their iron rungs are pointed in sorrowful refrains of the dead and I am reminded once again of the acute loss that plagues me. My father is buried here. In this hallowed place, where soul meets its end amidst the earthen soil and I wish more than anything for him to resurrect and tell me of which path to take.

            If I sing, I am condemned to an eternity of regret but am secure in my safety and will forever be cherished with Raoul. He will care for me. He will guard and guide me.

            But if I refuse, phantom’s future seems as dark as his home and I know little of what it might look like. I try to picture rushing to his side, pressing fervent kisses to his lips and confessing my heart’s ache for him and it dies quickly at the prospect of such nakedness. Recklessness. I may forever burn with passion and life but the flame may snuff out under the prospects of what a reality with phantom will hold. A life where he will be made to suffer and myself alongside him.

            Gritting my teeth, I pull to a stop outside the cemetery grounds and dismount with practiced ease. I have been here many times before and now is no different.

            I inhale softly through my nose, burning the skin of it and I tread lightly into the grounds with a thickness that only grows in my throat as I approach the Daae grave plot.

            Approaching the gray slashed stones, I drop to my knees in a loathing motion, a prayer breaking my lips and piercing the air, “Father, I miss you.”

            There is no answer. Even if I wish there to be.

            Tears burn, sting and then fall down the expanse of my cheeks and I press a fist to my chest to appease the ache blooming so prevalently there, “I have finally found love. Something you always wished I would.”

            I swipe both hands angrily down my cheeks, “But he is not at all what I imagined. He is so…” I search for words and struggle to the point I feel a piteous cry rising to my throat instead and I stifle it angrily, “he is not a good man. He is violent. Ill-tempered. Reckless. But he is also musical, a genius and prodigy,” I swallow, “There is the other matter…of his looks. Both temptingly sweet and viciously horrid. I am both drawn to and repulsed by him. How can that be? How could he be the right man for me when he is such a walking paradox?”   

            Again, there is no answer and I stare vacantly at the headstone, feeling the crisp kiss of snow wet my cheeks with my tears. My voice is swallowed by the stillness of the grounds and for a brief moment I close my eyes and enjoy it, praying for answers I know will not come easily to me.

            “Christine…”

            I jump at the sudden velvet voice, falling backwards into the snow onto my rump as I watch the phantom emerge from behind the mausoleum of stone and ice before me. I scramble backwards, deftly trying to put distance between us but he appears to move as if by willpower rather than legs and he is helping me to stand before I can flee.

            “What are you doing here?” I am whispering, my voice a strained scrape in the air. Somehow having him hear my confessions before my father’s grave feels far too personal and I feel vulnerable before him. Intensely embarrassed he has been witness.

            He wears a black half mask this day, his overcoat equally laced in charcoal, eyes the color of cinnamon in comparison with his skin pink as mine about his exposed cheek and neck. I see him swallow before speaking, measuring his words, but his hand has not left my arm and it burns to feel his palm. I realize it is the first time I have felt his skin on mine. The calloused fingertips and ridged lines. I realize I want them on my face, his fingers touching my lips and it unsettles me completely. I have never wished a man to touch me so badly and yet I cannot deny the feral need billowing in my belly.

            I am engaged to another man. A man that I have deep feelings for. I should not be here with Erik thinking the things that I am. Most especially after his arrival at the masquerade and the following demands he gave. He is brutish. A commanding dictator with little compassion and even less patience. I should wish him gone from me at once.

            “I’m sorry…” he answers softly, as if afraid I will run and he is quite right. I can feel my feet already turning, the crush of snow underfoot groaning in protest of being trampled, “I wanted to speak with you. I needed to.”

            “After your ultimatum, I didn’t think there was anything left to say.”

            His eye twitches, the color looking as though it has lightened several shades under my ire, “Yes. I was abrupt at the masquerade…but surely you must know I had a right to be. You and Raoul…”

I feel a flicker of shame at his mention of the engagement I still have kept secret and the consequent fight I shared with Raoul after the masquerade. He had found my behavior towards the phantom unsettling and worse still, he’d sensed there was more than I was saying. That I might be enamored rather than afraid as I ought to be. Though he’d not said such bold things to me, I could see it in the azure of his gaze, the accusation hiding so plainly in their depths. He does not understand nor can I ever ask him to. No one would.

“And your demands? Your letter of intentions and the threat of killing

someone else?”

Phantom stares at me, brows raising, “I never said I would kill again. And even if I did, I doubt it would be for recompense.”

“Did you call it recompense with the stagehand?”

“No,” he shifts, his breath tickling my cheeks, “I called it self-defense at the

time when the man’s hands were about my throat. But I wouldn’t expect any to believe me. Least of all you.”

“I don’t.”

He doesn’t respond and I feel the next words fill my mouth in petty reply, my anger rising at his lack of defense on his part. We both know that I lie. I believe him and he knows it.

“What of your other demands?”

Erik sighs, a sign of defeat marking his eyes near gold rather than brown, “It’s part of the show.”

            “The show?” I ask hollowly, my stomach dropping.

            “Yes. I need them to think I am that way. They would not listen to me otherwise.”

            “So you frighten them into obeying? Frighten me?”

            He blinks, his lips pressing firmly before answering me, thumb now brushing my arm in soothing circles as though unconsciously. But it sends gooseflesh over my entire frame as I wish him to move his touch to my throat. My collar bones. But then replace his fingers with his kiss.

            I am horrified by my increasingly vivid thoughts and I redden as he watches me, his brows dipping in confusion. “Do I frighten _you_ Christine? Do you not believe me?”

            “Yes.” I answer it flatly. As honestly as I had the day he’d stolen me away to his home beneath the opera house. He frightens me immensely. But it is not in the only way I am leading him to believe.

            His hand drops from me as he takes several steps back, a guilty expression marking his face, “I ache for you Christine. There is nothing I can do about that. No amount of wishing will make it end. Not even my feelings towards your decision with Raoul seem to have tempered it.”

            “I am engaged now…Erik…” I falter, wishing my words were different than they will be. It seems my decision is being made. I hate myself for the cowardice but I have no choice. Phantom is not the man one could so easily love. Loving him would mean giving him my soul and I am not sure I have the capacity to do so. “We cannot be. I’ve made my decision.”

            His gaze narrows, eyes falling to my lips until they tingle under his scrutiny and as if he senses my weakness, closes the distance between us once more. My eyes dart to the headstone at his back, thinking of what my father might say and I wish I knew. I wish he were here to help clear this confusion, because my heart is a throbbing beat beneath my breastbone, pleading for me to choose the man in front of me. To pick what it wishes rather than what is safe and I desperately wish to obey. But how can I?

            “Have you really chosen?” he is so close now that he can press against me and he does, daring to share the breath that I inhale, his lips so tantalizingly close to mine I can see his dark lashes fringed above the ocher of his gaze.

            I place a hand on his chest to stop him, but it is weak at best and the thrill of his rapid heart beneath my palm only fuels my resolve. If I am to choose Raoul, I wish to kiss the phantom just once. To allow Erik this one moment with me where I might forget what is right and simply do as I wish.

            “May I?” he asks so softly that I have to strain to hear it and I am no longer ashamed of my answer when I nod simply, knowing he will kiss me now.

            His lips brush mine, the pressure not nearly enough to satisfy the sudden clawing of need and my hands fist in his cloak to claim what I desire only to have the moment shattered into thousands of painful shards by a deep growling voice.

            “Get back from her!”

            “Raoul!”

            As if rising from a great nightmare, I stare horrified at Raoul as I see him advancing on us, his face contorted in clear intent, blade open and shining. Erik has already danced away from me and to my utter shock, he too draws a blade which I had not seen beneath his cloak.

            Blanching, I back into the headstone, struggling to find my suddenly absent voice, “Don’t do this, please.”

            Both men glance to me and I see something dark as a moonless night reflect in their gazes. They will kill and not regret it.

            “Erik!” I call, my heart aching so badly that I know I will forever remember this day as I will these last months, “Please.”

            Raoul’s head snaps in my direction, his wrath-filled trance momentarily breaking as he stares open mouthed at my plea. “Christine don’t be a fool. He won’t care what you say.”

            The phantom smiles, his teeth so very white and straight against the backdrop of his black mask, that I am struck with truly how handsome he would have been had there not been a cruel twist of fate upon his birth. I watch him remove his cloak with a fine flicking motion, revealing that he wears only a white tunic and black breeches. The laces of his tunic have been left loose as if he’d rushed to dress, baring a good portion of his surprisingly tanned skin with the snowy white tails disappearing into the black of his high-waisted breeches. It is such a casual look for him I have never seen that I stare openly at him, transfixed by the picture he makes.

            If Raoul notices, he doesn’t appear to show it because he has already moved to engage the phantom with little thought to my presence. My eyes dash to Erik once more, a cry for mercy rising to my mouth only to be silenced upon the clash of blades.

            It feels as though I’ve been run through.

           

**_Phantom_ **

****

            I can hear Christine crying for me to stop in the background and I silence her voice as easily as if it is my fading conscience. There is only this electrical sensation of rage and excitement blending in a fury of piano eighths and a throaty scream. My own, I realize. But it remains a hidden truth of the emotions boiling within me, ones that have no place being sung here in the midst of battle and so my soul screams in pain.

            I focus the energy of it into the cut of my blade, slashing downwards ferociously into Raoul, backing him easily into a thin wedge of the cemetery.

            “You are beaten,” I hiss, my voice sounding as though a feral animal has taken over. But I cannot force it back to its humanity.

            He spits, the white sputum landing in sickening bits atop my cheek and I growl deep in my throat, pressing our locked blades tighter to Raoul’s throat. He squirms, fighting the strength of my arms but is failing quickly. He does not appear as proficient as I’d thought in swords.

            “She is not yours to take.”

            I blink at him, realizing the man thinks I am fighting him for Christine. The truth of the matter is far more sinister. I see Christine as my own, something that no matter how badly I wish to renege on, I cannot seem to convince my heart otherwise. She was never Raoul’s and she will never be. Therefore, there is no need to fight the pompous man for her. She will choose on her own, though I doubt it will go in my favor.

            I am fighting him merely because I dislike him. Rather…I think of his lips upon hers, their whispered kisses and embraces and a wedge of fire licks at my chest so pungently that I nearly drop the blade. No, I loathe Raoul for what he does to her. For being an option to her. Though she will always be mine and I hers, there is little doubt as to who she will choose to live her life with and this battle…is merely payment for my suffering. Suffering I know will occur in the end.

            “You are too ugly for a woman like her to love. Leave us be.”

            “You may be right,” I lift my knee, shoving the ball of my foot into Raoul’s chest. He falls over backwards, hitting the snow with a great expulsion of air before scrambling to his feet and I allow only the barest seconds for him to regain his footing. “But she does love me. And there is nothing you can say or do about it, little boy.”

            Raoul momentarily falters, his eyes dancing to Christine who has fallen silent and I realize she is watching me with such disdain. Such pain. It hurts to see the disappointment marking her rose lips and dark brows.

            “She does not love you. She is confused and you have taken advantage.”

            I feel indignation rise in my chest at the accusation and try to remember a time when I thought her confused. If I thought her unaware of what she’d been doing with me. What she’d been making. But I cannot recall a single time. Yes, she’d been scared. Enamored. Surprised. But more often than not, she had felt as I had, the electrical current that binds us and had wished to be closer as I had.

            “Christine is a woman. Not a girl as you may treat her and she knows her own mind,” I parry, swirling around Raoul to take his back and very nearly go for the obvious kill, but stay my hand as Christine’s eyes widen and she clamps a hand over her mouth. If I kill him now, she will never forgive me. It will live as a blight between us and any hopes I may have had in swaying her, will be over.

            This one moment of hesitation costs me.

            Raoul turns, catching my blade and knocking it from my hand leaving me completely open to an end. Sadly, I do not feel fear rush through me in heady droves as one should before their final moments, but relief. Sweet intoxicating relief that it might all end here and now, with Christine’s lips having just touched mine, her sweet rose oil in my nose and skin memorized by hands that have never touched another woman. I think it rather poetic to have my life ended where all others come to end and I go still as the angelic statue behind me, eyes finding Christine’s to bolster my faith.

            I have done many wrongs and I have far more ill-traits than good, but I know where I will go when death sings for me. Heaven waits beyond the sweet cello of my mind that scrapes a raw melody within me and I feel ready.

            Raoul’s blade nicks my throat, the point resting where my pulse flutters perilously and I find my gaze torn away from Christine to him. I do not wish it there, but it seems unable to look away from the man who would be its killer. His eyes are pure blue, so very light and crisp that I feel a familiar surge of jealously rival within me. If I did not so love my own ocher gaze, I might be tempted to wish for his, for they are as pure as Christine’s.

            “Raoul, please…”

            He hesitates and I wish he would not. I hear her singing in my mind, my sweet angel of music and I feel my lips wish to smile, my heart speed at the prospect of going someplace where my world will finally be righted. If it is as the old texts of Bibles I have read, then I will be in heaven with the Almighty this very minute.

            “He is a monster.”

            I snort, “I am a man. You sir, are the monster. Do your worst and be done with it. I’ve no time to play with boys if you haven’t the stomach to finish what you start.”

            I know I’m goading him, but I feel ridiculously careless about the situation. It does not matter now.

            “No!” Christine’s terrified plea sends my heart skittering to my toes at her defense of me and I shake my head at her. Willing her with my gaze to be silent.

            “Let me go Christine,” I ask softly, feeling the request’s bitter taste on my tongue. I do not do well with defeat, but it feels as good a time as any for it.

            She ignores me and pleads with Raoul instead.

            “It’s murder Raoul. Let him go.”

            Raoul presses the tip tighter to my throat and I feel the steady trickle of blood wet my skin. Anger lances through my small victory of Christine’s defense and I clench my fists, “Do it or release me. Either way, you have lost.”

            He stares at me another moment, then finally drops the blade. I cannot help the smug smile that I know marks my mouth, having guessed the man to be a coward as well as a fool, and I inhale softly taking in frigid air to cool my sweat dampened skin.

            Raoul is moving to Christine, taking the place he believes is his at her side, tugging her to where their mounts are tied at the entrance of the cemetery. I ache to stop them. To finish Raoul now, but I know she will surely not choose me then. Like it or not, it is quite clear Christine cares for the man. And it burns my soul as if she has speared a hot poker through it. There is but one choice left to me.

            I watch Christine struggle against tears, her sapphire eyes flashing to me, begging me to understand her choice though she knows I never will and my eyes burn with shameful tears.

            Raoul tugs on her reins, his anger so very evident I can see his hands shake as I lift my chin and stare boldly at him. Daring him to return and finish what he’d started. I know it is neither honorable nor good to wish a man dead. But I find myself willing it by strength alone and I grit my teeth to keep from hailing their farewell with curses.

            I will go forward as planned. There will be no easy and simple ending to it. Though I had hoped, sadly prayed even amidst the swirling of bleak harmonies that had haunted me through the night that I might convince her this day. It seems that plan was as imprudent as the one which I must finish. I will see it through, to the very bitter end and when Christine chooses Raoul as I suspect she will, it will be the very end for me.

 

***

 

            I sit in the cool water, waist deep, and my skin feels as though it is coated in thick sheets of ice. I’ve sat for far too long in this dismal pool, bathing to the point my skin is raw and my fingers ridged in sogginess. It is not for the first time that I wonder what Christine is doing. Who she might be with…

            I frown, smoothing a hand over my soap slicked chest, feeling the ripple of muscle and sinew, wishing for more than I ever should.

            The water is dark soot, only the brush of glowing candles meets my naked frame in the far portion of the dark space I’ve gone to hide. I have heard them rehearsing for the last several hours, their discordant pitiful attempts at replicating the masterpiece from my mind haunting to say the least. I dip low in the water, so far as to submerge my ears so only the soft rumble of vibrations meets them. Blessedly there is nothing here but me. No one. I can hide.

            This feeling, the silence which can only be found here, in the deep of darkness is where I think best and I revel in its peace, staying long enough I am shivering from the chill of winter’s touch and frigidly desperate for warmth. I force my body to uncurl, the muscles of my legs to loosen and I stagger up to the crumbling ledge of the place I call home.

            When I stand stiff and dripping before it, I am fully aware of how pitifully bare all of it is. Something unlikely to have escaped Christine. Something I should have thought of before going down this twisted path with her. Save my impressive selection of candles and iron settings, I have my organ as centerpiece, a small alcove where my bed resides and a wall of shelves which house as many books as I could fit. I have read them all, several times over and yet I am still happily enthralled when I steal away with a favorite and disappear for a time into another world. There is little in those worlds that frighten me.

            I finger the tails of my coat with something near fondness and stride to the corner of my bedchamber where the familiar edges of an armoire reside. And the mirror I keep covered for my sake more than any other. When it is simply me down here, I rather prefer to forget how I look as I don’t walk about wearing my mask. It is freeing to pretend I might be someone as handsome as Raoul, particularly when I have no evidence to the contrary. But now…now there is a strange urge to do so and I stop before the glass in naught but my skin, fingers itching to removing the velvet cover on the mirror.

            Christine’s voice is a sharp melody in my ears, her lips teasing the back of my neck in promises she has never made and I let my eyes slip closed as I take the seat worn threadbare with use. Its wooden carvings feel as chilled as the water I languished in and I feel goosebumps rise along my arms.

            It is the night.

            The night where everything will come together and I do not expect to live through it. It seems only fitting to look upon the face which has caused me so many years of torment.

            I reach a steady hand to the mirror’s covering and pull, drawing the velvet down with ease and suck in a sharp breath. I look away immediately, as if I might be punished for gazing upon something so foul and I grit my teeth at the response, irritated with myself. Lifting my gaze once more, I steady an assessing eye upon the stranger’s reflection and blink several times to clear the haze of emotion that fills my eyes and swells my throat.

            Half man, half beast. On the portion of my face that I am willing to stomach, there is a clean curve to the cheek bone, a defined jaw line and dusting of whiskers that might be considered handsome. One black brow slashes above the deep chocolate of an eye that is matched to its pair on the other side.

            I clench a hand atop the table, shaking the mirror as I force my gaze to memorize every dip of scar on the beast side of me. This man has nearly no right brow, his cheek bone is hidden beneath layers of crisscrossing flesh which dip low enough it could be seen just an inch outside of his otherwise normal mouth. His head though…I reach a tentative hand to the ridges of tissue on my scalp, fusing the image of beast together with the gentleman peering in horror at his birth’s curse.

            This is not two men. It is simply me. I am this…thing and I must embrace it this night. All of it.

            I stand abruptly from the mirror, jostling the bottles of cologne and aftershave atop the surface as I move to dress. The pants have been pressed, my shirt starched and light as snow against my now flushed skin and I quickly button it closed with little more than a glance behind at the cutting image I make. Retrieving my mask, I reluctantly seal it over the deformity, adjusting the dark wig about my skull until they both should appear as normal as the breaths that rise in my chest.

            There is a brief moment, a pause of life itself as I dare a final study of the lair that has become my home these years. I feel the urge build, climb and then swell with sweet pain as I recollect all that I’ve done and I know there will be nothing to stop it. As song does so very often, I hear sixteenth notes flutter past me, blurring about my fingertips, tugging me to the organ as if I’ve no will to stop it. Groaning in surrender, I hear the swell of what should be a violin, not organ against my ears and I feel my eyes flutter closed, my heart stutter painfully at the haunt of it. The violin is bitter sweet, her notes so very cunning and glorious that I realize belatedly I’ve rumpled my tux in my excitement.

            _That voice which calls to me and speaks my name._

I clench my teeth, releasing the keys, jumping back from the organ I hadn’t realized I’d moved to with a jolt of fear. Christine will not choose me this night and yet…I see her in my mind. I _feel_ her against me and around me as if she were singing beside me and there is a brief moment where I wonder if I’ve truly gone mad. Where does genius end and madness begin?

            I blink into the now pitch dark around me and sigh.

            Time has slipped past me again and I have no notion of how long I’ve stood in front of my organ composing, listening and drifting but I can feel wet ink on my hands and the crush of wide paper beneath my palm.

            Fool. My opera will have already started. There is yet another reason to hate myself, a foul curse rising on the back of my tongue as I struggle past my organ and find the edge of the boat I must take to get to Christine in time.

            I must go. Now.


	4. Past the Point of No Return

**_Christine_ **

****

            I have spent the last days in tremendous turmoil. None of which is helped by the melancholy which has settled over me in thick droves as a thick cream custard. It is by some miracle that I manage to climb from my bed, stare out the window and realize there is still sun in the sky. There is light to be had. But I do not feel the warm rays on my skin, nor do I notice as Raoul explains where the sentries are to be put in the theater. I am a walking corpse, who has no heart and is but a thing that breathes and moves.

            Erik has taken it with him. And Raoul is the harbinger of which I fear that will come to slay him, ending me in the process.

            “You go in five minutes Miss Daae.”

            I blink, finding the intruder of my thoughts to be Madame Giry, her watery gray gaze a steady companion at my side. I nod, thinking she looks rather tired and could use more sleep. Then again, I doubt I look much better. I have been fraught with sleepless nights and visions of Erik’s death upon Raoul’s blade for days. I wish an end to them, but then fear how that might be achieved.

            “Thank you Madame.”

            The sound of calling stagehands pierces the stale cloak of peace at the back of the curtain and I inhale a mouthful of sweat and anticipation. There is nothing quite like it, nothing so heady as the applause of an adoring audience, no matter the circumstances and I feel my blood begin to hum in preparation for it. I realize I am unwillingly looking forward to singing for Phantom. This one last time. If he is here, which I know he will be, then the man will show himself and then…I let my eyes slam closed, willing the image of him being torn from me in chains away.

            Surely he might escape. He might have a plan to evade. He would not be so foolish as to think that Raoul did not put a plan in place and yet…I fear for him, just the same.

            “Two minutes.”

            I stare at the velvet curtain, seeing the swish of movement that indicates the steady warble of sound coming from behind it is my co-star and his compatriot singing the few lines before I come on. Their discordant and grating song is reminder enough of the man I’ve angered. The one who wrote such an opera.

            A genius.

            There is a hush that settles of the crowd and I know I’m about to go on, my feet are about to touch the light of the stage and then it will all be impossible to stop. He will come and the dream will collapse upon itself as a sickly monster giving its last dying rattles before its permanent sleep takes it under. I feel panic settle its heavy fist over my chest and I clench my hands, fighting the desire to run. Raoul needs me to do this and in a twisted way, so does Phantom. He needs to see I’ve made my decision. It is over now. No going back.

            My cue tickles the shell of my ear and I find my feet moving until I am taken onto the stage’s right stairs and I descend them with the grace born a seasoned actor, though I am far from it. It feels as natural as breathing to be out upon the matted black surface underfoot and I find myself singing the words Erik wrote, feeling them steadily round my mouth as if he wrote them specifically for me. I don’t doubt that was his intention.

            I sing until I reach a table at center stage, littered in fruit and meat as if prepared for a feast, though I know its intended to look as gluttony. A feast of too much.

            I stop at the edge, lifting an apple that shines as ruby blood from the table and smell the nectar of it as I give the back of the stage my shoulders, awaiting my co-star.

             When the rich sound of a baritone refrain spills towards me and over my neck spreading goosebumps in a delicious fire, I feel my frame go rigid and I fight the irrational fear that somehow phantom has traded places with Piangi. Though it is not possible, I still anticipate him as he strides across the floor, coming to a stop just at my back. His voice is lightly accented, Italian undertones marking him Piangi and yet…I hear phantom in him. Enough so, I find my heart skipping to a break neck pace.

            Though we keep our pace natural and I am moving about the stage as though nothing is out of place, I am becoming more and more suspicious of the darkly shrouded figure. His hand is warm on my forearm as he grabs it and we dance a moment in a supposedly carnal masquerade, a prequel to what he is singing to me of.

_Past all thought of if or when. No use resisting. Abandon thought and let the dream descend._

            He offers me the gold engraved cup he has taken from the table props and I delicately sip at it, feeling my muscles go languid and my body react unnervingly to the lyrics penned. Though it is Piangi who sings them to me, I imagine Phantom beneath the folds of the black silk he wears and think of him singing such impassioned words to me. It causes an immediate flush to creep up my neck and by the time we’ve reached the table I truly have abandoned all thought. I am solely in the moment. Listening to him, wishing him closer.

            His hands clasp mine, an intimate gesture as his chest presses into my shoulder blades and we face the audience. There is a brief flicker of recognition at the pace of such a beloved heart anxiously pressing into my shoulder blades, but I do not fully believe it until his hands guide my own up the sides of my bodice in a move that is neither choreographed with Piangi nor welcome in this moment.

            I jerk, darting away from who I now know to be phantom sitting at the table and I imagine he knows that I am aware at this point. It takes me several lines of the song to calm my heart, to ignore the fear that races through me. I am both thrilled at the prospect of his nearness and fearful of what his plans might entail. I had not anticipated him daring something so bold. But he has. He sits a mere few feet from me. All for love.

            Such bravery and devotion he holds for me I simply cannot ignore and I find myself inexplicably lost in the lyrics he wrote for me. Giving into my desire to truly mean them. I sing them as though it is simply he and I. He must know this, because he remains seated, his posture so stiff I know he feels what I do. The steady shifting of breath and tension between us.

            I watch in pleasant satisfaction as phantom’s shoulders tense and his head turns to me as if in shock as I sing of our bodies entwining with no second thoughts. It is something I never thought to cross my otherwise clean mouth, but it does and easily.

            Crossing the distance, I know I am doing more than what is written, but I cannot help it. I walk to his back. He seems as defenseless in this moment as the song claims and he waits stiffly for me to invade his space as he did mine.

            I do and it is better than I hoped it would be.

            He jolts as my front touches his back and his head tips back in surrender to me. Electricity tickles at my fingertips and over my nerve endings until I feel myself as a glowing ball of energy. I have never felt the like of such before and it is both heady and terrifying.

            _When will the blood begin to race? The sleeping bud burst into bloom?_

I mean the words I am singing and as the cellos blend with the violins in an intimate dance of passion I see the phantom’s hands grip his knees, his fingers trembling in earnest longing. Raoul has never wanted me as much this man will. He will never have the passion. Desire. Chaotic and fervent wildness to him that I find so appealing in the phantom and I am struck with a heart wrenching sadness as I realize I will never be as happy with Raoul. Even if he is a better choice for me.

             As the song is slowly ending, I take phantom’s hands in mine, causing a strong shudder to rush through me and our arms dance with each other, fingers grasping in trembling embrace until I can stand it no longer. I don’t wish to be here anymore. I can’t do this. I’ve changed my mind.

            I attempt to fly away, scurry back across the stage and give distance but he must have sensed the sudden change in me because phantom rises too, grasping my arm, his voice going angry and harsh as we begin the final stanza together. As it is written.

            Sweat breaks across my brow as I tug hard enough to wince at his grip and he does not relent. He merely drags me further across the expanse of stage, his voice tilted in mournful tones. He knows as well as I that we have been doomed since the start, but it appears he is unwilling to stop it as I am.

            _We’re past the point of no return._

On the final word, I am doing what I know will enrage him but it will guarantee an end to it. By this point, surely Raoul already knows who has been singing with me and there truly is no going back.

            I tear his black hood from his head, revealing the white mask, a shade of elegant pearl on the right side of his face and a pair of startlingly wounded chocolate eyes. They are darker than normal, heralding the damage I have wrought him and I stare transfixed a moment by his sorrow so plainly painted in their depths.

            He shakes his head as if to stop what has already been done and I clamp a hand over my mouth as tears instantly rush to my eyes. The police are surrounding us. The show is over. It’s all over.

 

**_Phantom_ **

****

            She has brought them here to capture me. Arrest me for a crime I have not committed. At least not that crime. As for Piangi…I regret hurting him but he is alive and well behind stage, gagged and bound in a utility closet. The most harm that will befall him might be inhalation of dust and lemon cleaner.

            Dear Lord, she truly does not love me.

            I stare at her, my stomach cramping to the point I might vomit, audience or not and I give her my back, feeling anger quickly filling in the void of despair. Anything is better than this hollow vacuum of impossible need she has opened. Particularly after the song she had shared with me. Our music had been a blissful reprieve and I had been an imbecile to let my heart and mind swell with trust and belief in the good. 

            It is as I suspected but I cannot help the words that slip from me as I stupidly grasp my gold ring from my pinky, wrenching it harshly past the knuckle to press onto Christine’s ring finger. She does not stop me, but merely stares fixedly at my face, her eyes watery with tears.

            “Say you’ll share with me this love. This lifetime. Please, Christine, save me from my solitude,” I am aware of the pitiful pleading to my voice but it seems I cannot stop it.

            She must already know how badly she affects me, how much I have risked in attempting to win her this one last time and yet, there is a steel that enters her eyes. A determination that is unsettling to my core and I am not prepared when she callously shucks my mask, taking the comfort of my wig with it. Warm heavy air meets my distortion.

            A startled cry of alarm and anger bellows from me and it sounds deranged. I don’t care. I’ve never cared less.

            She has bared me before all. I am naked in front of a crowd of thousands at the mercy of their hands and I feel impotent rage fill me. Thoughtless madness.  

            I grasp her arm, losing all sense of morality and patience in this one vile moment. There is nothing to save me or her now. I’ve made my choice now she must make hers for I cannot survive this. I will not.

            I act without thought, forcing a now struggling Christine to my perceived exit where I dash any hopes of her escape with a fiery pyrotechnic. The red flicker of heat billows out in front of us and I manage to move quickly into the open black square of space at our back without Raoul and the police following too quickly. Though they will not be long now.

 

**_Christine_ **

****

            I have never seen him in so unrecognizable of a state and I have little hope of escaping as his fingers merely dig deeper into the flesh of my arm. He is lost somehow, so far away and yet so very near that I feel helpless but to follow him in sobbing refrains. My heart feels split wide, something wretched rising up the back of my throat that is acidic and dark. Dark as this place that Erik is taking me.

            “Please, Erik, you can’t just take me.”

            “I can,” he insists, his voice pitched in strain, “I have.”

            I shake my head, giving a pitiful attempt at tearing from his grasp. I know it is both too firm and this idea he is running on too entrenched to not be fulfilled. There is an energy as potent as heady aged wine spilling over us and I sense it is his energy that fuels this chaos. Erik is as lost and afraid as I feel, though he has channeled it into this next phase of his plans. A phase I am terrified to see as I know I have pushed him further than any might have dared before.

            “Where are you taking me?” my voice distorts in the hollow blackness that surrounds us and I cringe at the dread in it. Surely he knows he is frightening me.

            He stops, one hand still holding me in a permanent grip, the other latching onto the railing barring our fall to a hollow pit beneath us. I realize it is the watery lake where the boat from those months ago lies. A place I had thought to never see again.

            “Have you forgotten me so easily? Do you care so little of me?”

            I open my mouth to answer, to comfort even though I’ve no right to but he has closed the gap between us and I feel his breath warm my cheeks, a swallow working its way down the long column of his throat. This close, I can see the outlined edge of the disfigurement on the right side of his face in strong comparison to the near perfect of his left. His eyes look as dark almonds, brows drawn in dismay, lips tightly sealing words he might wish to say, but will not. I find his face does not repulse me as it once did. Rather, I find the uncanny urge to lift a hand to feel the ridges of scar and to memorize them against my palm instead. To press a kiss to those lips that are unharmed and moist, warm as the blood thrumming in his neck to an erratic pulse.

             “Why Christine?”

            I stare at him, confused out of my study and I do not know what he is asking me. I am sure of nothing anymore. Confusion has become my closest companion and though I wish to dust away the cloud of webs that inhabits my mind, I find with him so very close and my world crumbling about, I cannot.

            “Why what Erik?”

            There is a sound of feet overhead, a dull roar combined with yells of a clearly angry nature accompanying them and I think of Raoul’s reaction to my capture. He will come for me. I suspect Erik has already thought of this, for he seems neither surprised nor unsettled by the sound of an oncoming party.

            “I have been hunted,” he is whispering now, his lips close enough that I think he will try to kiss me but instead he seems to breathe me in, stealing my breath, brushing his lips across mine again as he’d done in the cemetery. “I have been tortured by everyone. No compassion. No mercy. No understanding of something I have never had control over. Not even my mother could stomach this face.”

            He is shaking, his lips trembling against mine in a whispers’ touch and I find I am so affected by him my legs are feeling rubbery and weak. I clasp the railing, my fingers brushing his. He doesn’t appear to notice. Erik is too caught up in his private misery, his heart rushing out in shattering whispers.

            “So I ask you,” his hand which has surely bruised my arm, rises, the fingers of a wide palm, long and tapered coming to rest at the nape of my neck in a lover’s embrace, “Why? Can you answer me why?”

            “No.”

            His eyes slip closed, brows furrowing in frustration, “Come. We haven’t much time.”

            “Before what?”

            He doesn’t answer me. I had not thought he would, but I am still surprised at the force of which he reclaims my arm and I wince, trailing after him neither willing or unwilling. It seems this night is to end far different than I had imagined and there is no use fighting what must be done. The phantom will have his ending. I can see it in the determined set of his shoulders, the clench of ribs as he drags in each breath as if it were fire entering his lungs rather than air. He is surely as beyond the point of no return as any man could be.

            It is not for the first time I feel the guilt crush me. I am the cause for his destruction. I am his breaking point. His ruin.

            We reach the place I had suspected we were going with ease and I remain silent until he has demanded I change into the elegant frills of a wedding gown. I have little doubts as to its purpose. There is no give in his expression and though he wears a crisp black tuxedo, one with long tails and a white vest and tie, he makes a haunting villain as he studies me dispassionately. There is no sliver of the man on the bridge who begged to know why humanity had spat him from their womb.

            Only cold, hard, resignation remains. I realize he intends to end this night likely with his life and it rakes a finger of ice through my middle as I stare blankly at my reflection in the mirror. Aside from the tracks of tears down my pale skin, one would not have guessed it was not my wedding day. The dress is made for me, in both size and style and I find there is something piteously pretty about it. I wish it were a dress worthy of me.

            “Are you now to satisfy yourself with your lust for flesh?”

            Though phantom is standing near his organ, I can see him flinch and I realize how much more poetic his expressions are, how very richly they flourish over his face without the constraint of the mask. In a strange way, he is tragically beautiful and I lift my chin to hide the appreciation marking my eyes. He will get no response from me. Not this way. Not by force.

            He has driven a wedge between us, determined to hurt me as I have him. To have me by force if not at all.

            “I have never been with a woman…but I will not take what is not offered.”

            His honesty is searing and I stare at him a moment, surprised he seems more calm, his eyes appreciative and gentle as they flit over my dress and loosely bound hair. I am far from elegant and bride worthy, but he appears to not notice. In fact, he seems lost a moment as he is studying me. Only the tick of his right hand indicating something more than what meets the eye goes on inside of his mind. I do not doubt it is his music plying at the edges of this madness, either urging him on or distracting his mission. I suspect the latter as his mouth firms on one side as if to hold in a song he wishes to let forth.

            I feel anger rise as a heady companion to the flush flaring in my cheeks and I fist my hands in the layers of crinoline and gauzy lace. I will have my answers for his intentions now, “But you will take my life? My hand in marriage by force?”

            Erik blinks, the trance broken. Something sorrowful and dark passes through his gaze then it is gone behind the wall of certainty I see lock into place in the whiskey of his irises, “Yes. If I must.”

            “You cannot make me love you,” I insist, my voice sounding hollow.

            “I do not need to do that. You already do. I will merely claim what is mine already. As you need only claim what is yours.”

            I open my mouth to argue, to insist he is wrong, though we both know that is not the case and instead am interrupted by the sound of an intruder. A most welcome and very unwelcome one. Raoul.

            Erik is at my side before he enters, his lips finding my ear, his arm wrapping about my waist angrily to jerk me into his stomach. I am ashamedly pleased to feel his heart pressing at me as a long lost friend, his breathing so erratic it is nearly distracting.

            “I think we have a guest my dear.”

            I attempt not to react at his sneered term of endearment but fail entirely as Raoul emerges from the murky shadows wading in the pool of dark water until he is at the pebbled copse nearest us.

            Erik’s chuckle is deep, warm and incredibly foreboding behind me, “I had hoped you would come.”

            “Free her now,” Raoul sounds so sure of himself. So confident and yet I do not share his sentiments. I know that the phantom nearly killed him in the cemetery and did not purely out of respect for me. Now, I doubt he will listen to anyone. He is as raw as a wound split wide and weeping. I realize I feel the same. Naked and raw. I wish Raoul would leave so I could have time to arrange my thoughts, to think of what to do.

            “Please Raoul, it’s useless, just go.”

            Cobalt eyes find mine and hold, their color brooking no argument, “I love her. Let me see her. Please.”

            Phantom laughs, pressing his lips once more to my ear, eliciting a spray of gooseflesh down my arms in a way that is not unpleasant in the least. Our shared words above on stage are a breath away, a steady thrumming under current to our predicament and I feel the song of it in my pulse. Taunting me. Begging me.

            “Your lover makes a passionate plea.”

            It is on the tip of my tongue to disavow Raoul as my lover and I bite my tongue to keep silent.

            “Please, show some compassion!” Raoul interjects, his voice reedy and angry. Violence painting every syllable with promise of recompense if I am harmed. I am stunned at the tears that rush to my eyes in response and I shake my head, willing the situation to cease. But there is nothing to be done. It is playing out in horrific seconds, two men that I have hurt in my foolish ways battling to their heart and body’s deaths. I am not worth such convictions.

            They will not listen to me now. It is too late.

            “The world showed no compassion to me!” phantom’s voice is pained, an arrogant battle cry piercing the dome above us and he throws me to the ground, grasping his skull as if pained. “Be my guest, see for yourself she is unharmed.”

            Though Raoul seems reluctant to move forward, he does, wrapping both arms around me, his whispered promises to protect me, scalding my guilt to a deeper level. I had not been as afraid as Raoul assumes. I had even enjoyed parts of Erik’s effect on me. I still feel him, ache for him. Wish for him. In the company of the man I am to marry who has come to save me. I can hardly stand to look him in the eyes.

            I am so caught up in my guilt that I do not hear the feet behind us, nor am I prepared for what Erik does.

            There is a wisp of air, a brutal cinching noise that prerequisites a grinding of rope over rope and I feel Raoul jerk in my arms, his hands fly to his throat.

            I jump to my feet in horror, watching in abject terror as Erik has strung a rope about Raoul’s neck and is dragging him to a position along the cave wall, a place where he may pull the man more easily by his neck by the noose. To kill him.

            I feel my stomach cramp and I wonder if I may vomit now at such a sight, but I am too angry to let it. Too sickeningly betrayed to understand my own reaction.

 

**_Phantom_ **

****

            “Order your fine horses now!” I hiss the words, sure that Christine cannot hear them, though I am no less ashamed to be stooping as low as I am to speak them. I am dripping with it, cold black shame and agony and I can do nothing save tremble beneath its frozen weight.

            That and watch the life bleed from Christine’s eyes. She is standing now, her hands clutching her gown, the one I had taken so much time in procuring and she looks both enraged with me and hideously disappointed.

            I secure Raoul, giving her my shoulders, ignoring the hair that rises on the back of my neck as he struggles against my hands, giving short gasps with the strain of the rope taut. Not enough to kill, but enough to strike fear. It has the desired affect for all parties including myself. Will I truly go so far? Would I risk my soul? Damnation?

            I frown, facing Christine, leaving Raoul along the wall to eat the distance between us. Her eyes are filled with luminous tears, their color so light they appear as a cloudless summer sun that I have not seen the likes of in far too long. What I wouldn’t give to lie naked in the sun.

            I banish the sickly sweet thoughts and instead exchange them for the bitterness that rests firmly between Christine and I, “Choose me and you save him. If you choose him, then he will die. It is your decision that will save the Vicomte.”

            She raises a hand is if to strike me and I stiffen, preparing for the blow so well deserved but am shocked when it instead rests at my heart. Her palm is warm against my chest and I am tempted to grasp it with my own hand. To crush her sadness with the imparting of my soul, but know if I do kiss her, it will not end with a mere kiss. It will not end until the ravenous starvation is quenched.

            An end neither of us is prepared to give. Not now.

            “Angel of music, you deceived me.”

            I do flinch now, as her words are searing enough the physical agony she might have delivered pales in comparison.

            “Why make her lie to save me?! Just kill me!”

            Raoul invades the cocoon of Christine’s anger a moment then fades away, though I still hear his voice pleading and cursing me on the periphery. I do not focus on it, but instead give allowances for the splitting of pain that courses my skull and claws at my ears as music shreds my insides for freedom. Violin, something so pure and destitute, fragile as a morning’s sunrise billows around us and I stare into Christine’s gaze, willing her to choose me. To understand me.

            “We are past the point of no return,” I say roughly.

            “I gave my mind blindly.”

            I blink, surprised at the cut that blossoms over my chest, shocked there is no blood running down the white of my dress shirt. There most assuredly should be, but alas there is not.

            “Blindly…” I whisper, disappointed in how hollow and pained I sound. I wish I had the capacity to appear as unaffected and angry as she. But I cannot. My heart is crumbling as a great ruin in the Persian empire.

            Inhaling through my nose, I grab her, turning her so she can see her precious Raoul, forcing anger in place of the pain once again and I near bleed to see the hatred mark her eyes for me. There is no chance for love now.

            “You try my patience. Make your choice.”

            She blinks at Raoul, lips curving into a sadly sweet smile, her eyes so very wet and poetically sacrificial I sense she will try and save him but am still unprepared for the shock of it.

            “Pitiful creature of darkness…” my throat closes at her words, the fist which had been about my heart before, tightening till the point I am surprised I do not collapse in agony before her in weeping tears, “What kind of life have you known?”

            She steps close, that same hand finding its way impossibly up to my ruined face, forcing needles into the hollow of my belly at the human touch I’ve never experienced. At least not in a memory as glorious as this one will be.

            Christine is whispering now, rising on her toes as if she is about to kiss me and I think she must wish to say something only I might hear. “God give me courage to show you, you are not alone…”

            Her words are ended as lips, red as rubies embrace mine and I stand a stiff statue, unable to move. To breathe. To do much of anything save try to keep my heart beating as Christine kisses me. I am so shocked I do nothing as she pulls back and smiles…a true smile.

            Then kisses me again. This time longer, her lips teasing mine, begging for more and I hardly know what to do. I have never kissed a woman. I have never held one as I am doing with her now and I feel terribly confused and unworthy of her. She wraps a hand into the folds of my vest driving me closer, the other grasping the nape of my neck to force my mouth harder into hers. An embarrassing groan of pleasure rises in my throat and I break our kiss with desperation clawing at me.

            When the room has descended again and the light of what I have done to get to this point does as well, I am struck with dismal guilt. Shame. Self-loathing.

            Christine has kissed me as no woman has dared, with my face fully exposed in sacrificial giving to her lover. She does not wish me. She does not love me in such a way. For Raoul, she would give her soul to a black-hearted devil and live out her days in the belly of an opera house. I am humbled by her heart and woefully heartbroken. With her. Myself. I wish an end to it all.

             It takes me several moments to recover, but when I do, I find my feet moving away from Christine leaving her in a confused daze at my organ as I approach Raoul. His eyes are full of hatred and loathing, a blackness that belongs exactly where it is aimed and I do not recoil from it. But rather embrace it, as I deserve whilst I free him.

            When he falls slack to the ground, I do not hesitate to drag him by his arm over to where Christine waits. Tears fight their way up my throat and onto my eyes, clouding the image of the beautiful couple they will make and I curse, gesturing angrily at the exit.

            “Go now. Be gone from here.”

            Raoul hesitates, his neck rare and red, eyes demanding blood for his justice but Christine is stopping him, pulling him towards the exit, eager to leave. I do not blame her. If I could escape the torment of my heart in this moment I would.

            “Leave me. Forget all you’ve seen…” my voice thickens, “Go now!”

            They scramble to their feet, moving to the exit, their backs facing me and I brace my own against the organ, hearing my heart as a pulse of percussion amidst the cries of tormentors coming for me. They will be here soon. To pillage their beast’s domain. To punish me for my crimes.

            I do not have the strength to fight them this time.

            Tears slip down my cheeks, wet heat sliding down my neck to my tie and vest and I feel my feet move unbidden to the base of the stairs where Christine and Raoul have gone.

            “Swear never to tell of the secrets you now know!” I hate how I waver, how a sob climbs the back of my throat and I cry out in a tortured scream, “Of this angel in hell!”

            They are gone. She is gone. A woman who has dominated my thoughts, broken the solitude of my existence and matched my soul for the last six years. And now it is all done.

            I feel something dying…or tearing away within my chest and I fall to my knees on the stairs, collapsing forward in a show of such weakness I wish to gag over it. But instead give into the sorrow and weep, finding prayers mumbling over my lips, in between terrible ragged sobs. I have never cried in such a fashion, never bared my soul before cold and unfeeling marble stairs and yet, this is where it happens and there is not one witness to my heart’s demise save God. I am glad for it. No man, woman or child should be witness to such a sight.

            When I am able to draw enough breath into my lungs to stave off another bout of hystEriks, I rise weakly to my feet, determined I might spend my last moments before the crowd of torch and pitch fork bearers descends upon me to control it. I wish to be at peace in these last seconds.

            There is a silly carved monkey near my stuffed bookshelf. A relic from my past, from a time when I served as an architect in the west indies and I find my eyes drawn to it. My feet inexplicably taking my closer to admire its curve and paint.

            I wind the song and listen to the melody that has comforted me so often that I instantly feel peace spread over me in soothing waves.

            “Hide your face,” I whisper the words, hiding half of the monkey’s face, “So the world will never find you.”

            I wish that were true.

            I hear someone behind me and I startle a moment, turning to find a face I had thought long gone by now. She is here.

            I stand abruptly, knowing from the expression on her face, that she has come to do a final something but is not here to stay and I quickly swipe at my cheeks. Destroying the evidence, I wish she would never see. Though I am sure she already has.  

            Christine stands before me as a resolute bride, her face pink, eyes red-rimmed and teary but with strength in her posture. I admire her for such strength. I lack the conviction now to care that her strength comes in opposition to me. She stands a moment, both of us silently appraising the other until finally, she grasps the hand that had been at the nape of my neck only a handful of minutes ago and removes the golden ring I had thrust onto her ring finger during our passion play up on stage.

            Its removal is a final piece in this twisted puzzle and I accept it with a bitter stab of despair resting into my breastbone.

            “Christine,” I sound strangled, “I…I love you.”

            Her eyes jump to mine, their color startling, filling with tears as her lips begin to tremble in honest pain and I realize something I had not considered. Her posture and decision is strength, but her eyes speak love. Such love for _me_ , I realize, that I ache to take her into my arms and beg her to stay.

            Though I will not make a fool of myself any longer, it is clear I misjudged her again. She has chosen Raoul because it is good to do so. I am not the easy, clear or good choice. I am the man that she loves…but cannot and should not have.

            There is little comfort in knowing this unabashed truth as it shines in her eyes and speaks eloquently to me, but I take what little there is deserved and cling to it. Christine near crumples then, tears tracking tragically down her face as she is backing to the stairs, still saying nothing. I suspect she is stopping herself from returning the statement of love I have made. I am glad she does. I could not bear to hear it now when she will do the same with Raoul not much later.

            Instead, she starts singing. A tumble of familiar notes, ones that she’d spoken and promised to Raoul in her adoration and confession on the rooftop and I stare at her. She is singing to me. One last time to soothe the brokenness, to assure me there was and is and might always be what I had always thought. A love. A love that never dies between us. No matter what paths we choose, for the best or not.

            Raoul appears at her side again as if summoned by the song and a fresh set of tears marks her eyes. So this is goodbye for us. A better ending than I suppose some moments ago…but no less painful and I feel the warmth of tears marking my own cheeks.

            I do what little I can in absolving her consciousness.

            For it is clear she is asking it of me. Silently pleading with indigo eyes of endless pools.  

            I nod at her. And relief spills into her gaze before she turns the song to Raoul, offering him her hands, though her shoulders are tight and her eyes dance back to me once more at the very top of the stoop. I cannot watch their disappearance again. Not this time. No, this time I dust the wrinkles from my vest, rake a hand over my nearly bald scalp and then head in the direction of my final exit. A mirror that is finally worth breaking.

            Smiling with acid at it and my red splotched countenance, I give a hard kick to the reflective surface and watch in satisfaction as it crushes into shards at my feet, opening the entrance to a long forgotten tomb of a hall. Musty air washes out over me, cooling the heat of my face and trickling down the loose tie about my neck. It will take me to my new life. To the life I am still unsure I wish to live.

 


	5. Forevermore

**_Phantom_ **

            I have spent weeks in my solitude, rising for air, eating what scraps I deign to offer my hollowing belly then I resubmit to the blackness. It is not that I wish to die, but it is simply rather easier to do so. Though, if I were honest, it would be much easier to simply be done with the deed rather than to drag it out. Which likely proves I have not the heart nor the courage to complete what should already be done.

            I stare numbly at the walls of the room I have stowed away in and find it is just the same as the last time I opened my eyes. There are five hundred and six stripes of hunter’s green trading with five hundred and four peeling crème on the splash of dismal wallpaper that surround me. French doors to my right, though they are ill-fitting and poorly painted and a large armoire beside a dressing table to the far right. A bathroom lies somewhere near the door. I have to blink several times to clear the haze of sleep that clings to my eyes.

            Shifting, I allow both my bare feet to wriggle in the soft carpeting beneath and I think nothing of rising to stand in nothing save my skin and a pair of faded underclothes. Not even my familiar half mask adorns my face. It lies as an empty ivory husk atop the dilapidated dressing table to the far right of the room. It has not touched my skin in weeks.

            Gone are the days I have any need to hide.

            No, this place, this hovel that I have found myself in has no visitors nor will it likely ever as I purchased it within a week of settling in a vacant room. The staff all answer to the man they think owns it and I merely make use of it until it will eventually bore me. Though I keep thinking that time will come and I will move past Christine, it has still not. I am haunted by her in every waking and sleeping moment. Though my dreams are far preferable. It is likely why I spend so much time in bed lost to them.

            Shuffling into the gray opening of the bathroom, I press both hands into the sink’s ledge, cautiously meeting my brandy gaze in the reflection. It is marked with dark circles and pale flesh, though slightly flushed from sleep, I look particularly awful, even to myself. I scowl, scrubbing a hand over both sides of my face where I let a hand come to rest at the naked place of my collar bones. My pulse is the only indication that life exists beneath the flesh I’m touching.

            I am glad that I am rid of the little hair that I had left on my scalp. Upon my first night here, I was so disgusted with my appearance that I shaved the last remnants of it to leave a cleanly naked scalp. Only my dark brows remain and even that, on the one side at least, is questionable.

            Using a handful of water, I splash cool liquid over my face to rouse more and find that my energy is so very lacking I might wish to go back to sleep.

            “Christine…” I mumble her name half-heartedly, reluctant to join into a conversation with myself again. I have participated in such as a crazed manic, unable to voice the words I wished to say to her in person, so it has overflowed into the silence that surrounds me. I don’t wish to dwell on her though.

            What I truly wish, above even my yearning for her is that my music would return.

            I have been doubly bereft as the melodies which have haunted, cursed and blessed me since childhood have appeared to disappear with Christine…

Dear Lord she has decimated every living breathing part of me.

            When I make it back into the main of my room, I realize with only mild interest that the day is late and that I have woken yet again in the cusp of night’s grasp. The sun must have just settled beneath the horizon as dusky fingers still cling to the shades.

            As if drawn to the touch of the sun’s kiss, I walk to the end of the rumpled bed and grasp the robe there. It has been my close companion as I have forgone a suit for the sake of ease in dressing. I appear to care about very little as of late, least of all, my appearance. Tying the thick tarry cloth about me, I find myself peering out of the deck windows past the curtain, staying within the shadows for fear of being seen.

            I stay so long looking out the window that night fully descends and stars begin to wink into view. There is nothing more beautiful than night. Particularly this moonless one.

            There is a tingling sensation, like that of a storm’s electrical current touching the ground very near or the hush of a crowd as they realize their favorite dancer has fallen and I blink into the night, wondering where it has come from. Why, in the middle of my solitary peace do I hear the niggling sensation of a cello and violin begging to be heard.

            Could my music finally have returned to me? Could it be so very near that I might close my eyes and finally hear it?

            Before I can think better of hoping, my eyes slam closed and I feel the notes out with my mind as a physical touch until they are beckoned by the whisper of a long lost lover into warm sound. I realize too late, that I am grasping the curtain, nearly tearing it from its rings as the notes burst into sound within me and I press my face into the chill of the night air. Tears cling to my lashes and for once, it is not sadness. But relief. Joy perhaps. I’m too overwhelmed to sense which is bubbling within me.

            “Erik…”

            I gasp, clutching the curtain tighter. She is back inside my mind too. Her voice so very pure and sure. I am a trembling fool over again and there is a strong part of myself that wishes to clamp both hands over my ears and block her out. But I cannot stand to live if pushing Christine out of my mind means the music will leave me once again.

            “Erik, please…”

            My eyes snap open, the air in my lungs clutching as a prowling beast caught by a stinging snare and my heart has fallen to my toes. I know I am dreaming now. I know it is not real. But there is little I can do but turn slowly and let my eyes adjust to the dark shrouded figure in the darkness of my bedroom. Christine.

 

 

**_Christine_ **

****

            I am so very frightened at how he will receive me that I don’t think of what I am about to do, but rather I simply move forwards edging closer until I can feel his warmth by presence alone.

            It is so dark in his room, so very dark that all I can make out is the shape of his cheek in the gleam of the moonless night and the dark edge of his right shoulder as he has turned to face me.        

            “I don’t mean to startle you…I just…”

            “How did you find me?” Erik’s voice is sharp, near cutting in nature and I feel my breath come to a choked stop in my throat. He hates me now. Hates me for what I did. I cannot blame him. I hate myself more every day and regret my decisions as every hour takes me closer to Raoul come the morning. I am to wed in a handful of hours, something I have chosen by my own freewill. And yet…I am here, standing in a darkened hotel room before a man who I know will not welcome me, nearly begging that he persuade me otherwise.

            “I have been looking.”

            “Why Christine?”

            I blink, wishing more than anything I could see his face. Watch the light of his ocher eyes burnish into whiskey in anger. “I needed to see you once more. To say goodbye…”

            “You already did that once,” he is brushing past me, the smell of his French aftershave filling my nose with pungent ink and I feel my fingers grasping his hand, stopping him. He tenses as if he is to tear away from me and I merely hold tighter. I did not hunt for him these last weeks to be deterred now. Even if I must marry Raoul, I wish to have this one night with my phantom. With Erik.

            “I know. But please…let me speak with you.”

            He exhales, warm breath dancing over my cheeks and I lean into it, aware he might notice but too lost in the deceptive darkness that clings to us. “You have said all you needed to. It is done. Now…” he grasps my wrist, callouses roughly circling the narrow bones, “You must go.”

            “I have missed you.”

            His shoulders tighten, the crown of his head tipping as if he is staring up to the ceiling in physical pain and I dare to lean into him, risking the rejection I deserve as my hands creep about his middle to rest at his belly. He feels thinner than last I held him and it causes a deep ache to blossom in my chest. I am nearly sure that I am the cause of such decline.

            “Christine you cannot…you cannot do this. Not now,” Erik’s voice sounds as though someone is strangling him and I tighten my hold about his middle, desperate to comfort him. Perhaps I should not have come. I didn’t think of how it might hurt the phantom, I merely thought of my survival and when I’d found him…I had simply come. Not thinking, not analyzing my motives or what might happen as a result. It had been carelessly juvenile to think that Erik might be glad to see me without having to face the consequences of my actions.

            “I needed to just…to hold you a moment. To remember the way it was.”

            He turns suddenly in my arms, grasping my upper arms in a vise-like grip, his voice dropping to a deep whisper of anger, “You knew the way it was Christine! You knew it the whole time. I offered every part of me and you chose him! Go back to him. Leave me.”

            Erik’s words are so stinging, so viscerally bit at me that I stare numbly up at his shrouded face, only the sawing of ragged breaths marking him a man rather than a figment of my imagination. It is in this moment, where I wish to do as he bids and run that I do something so very bold it surprises even me. I step into the space he has forced between us and I lay a steady hand over his fluttering heart. It touches my palm in little caresses beneath a smoothness of skin and I realize he is not wearing a shirt. His jacket is missing and in its place is a well-worn fabric. Likely a robe.   

            Though I knew him to be a mere man, not some heroically dark and tortured creature that is always dressed in sleek attire, it is surprising to find him so very human. Beneath my palm, beating so wildly at the touch of a woman he wishes gone, is a human heart. And I know it wishes for me as much as I wish for it. We are bound by something greater than flesh and I am unable to stop myself as I reach up on tip toes to brush a delicate kiss to this man’s jaw. He is just a man then.

            A man who catches my hand upon his chest and squeezes my knuckles until they cry out in protest and is raggedly breathing with the control of a saint. A man who I would have love me this night. Perhaps forever.

            “May I?”

            “May you what?” his voice is hoarse and I have so little strength left in me that I let my eyes slipped closed and I dance forbidden fingertips up his throat to his scarred face. He flinches when I find the marks, but eventually relaxes into me, his throat working in swallows, breaths warm as a summer day’s breeze on my palm.

            “May I kiss you?”

            Erik is tottering on the impossible edge as I am. Balancing precariously between the edge of day where I should belong and the bliss of onyx where he does. It appears we are to meet this once, perhaps change my fate and seal a bond with a man I should not. But for once, I have done as my heart calls and in this moment, in the darkness that swallows us, I cannot regret it. When morning breaks, I might. But surely not now. I wish to spend a night wrapped about him, sharing everything and sharing nothing. I wish to be skin and skin with nothing left to bare and I nearly tremble in anticipation of his answer.

            “Please…”

            His hand is still on mine, lips so very near it would take but a slight tip of my chin to find them. “You tempt me so very much Christine.”

            “Then give in. Let us not think on what it means for now.”

            “But it can only mean one thing to _me_ Christine. I have not stopped loving you…” his voice breaks and I feel his sorrow as my own. It grips my heart in staggering pain and I move to clutch him to me. Pressing my nose into the soft skin of his chest feeling his trembling breaths as my own. His voice is a warm resonance beneath my ear and I inhale deeply of the skin long denied me. It smells as his sheets once did. Parchment, ink and French aftershave. A heady compilation of some of his favorite things. “You must go. If you do not, I will not be able to stop.”

            “I don’t want you to stop,” my voice sounds equally ragged and I realize I am crying. The warmth running down my cheeks is tears and that Erik is no further from it than I.

            I wish again to see him. To stare into the golden flecks surrounding his pupils and match the love he must know I feel for him. I would not be here asking this of him if I did not.

            “Christine…”

            “I want you.”

            He inhales, one hand finally coming around to press me closer, the other running softly down the length of my unbound hair. “You know I want you.”

            “Then take me. I am offering. I am ready Erik.”

            “What of Raoul? Why are you here now?”

            I blink into the softness of his robe and feel my eyes slip closed as I picture my fiancé’s face. It is a bleak light of which he arises and though his hair is golden brown and his eyes are sapphire blue of the purest color, he is not the man I have dreamed of. He is not the one who makes my heart race as it is now. He is not…the one. I cannot marry him.

            I am so shocked by my sudden revelation that I nearly gasp. It has come far too late. But it is the truth. I cannot marry him. Not when I hold the man I love so dearly within my grasp. I would rather have this, a lifetime forever in night, hiding and poverty than one that is blessed and comfortable but loveless. I need Erik the way I need to breathe. To deny such has been foolishness and reckless for us both.

            “I am not marrying him.”

            Erik’s breath rushes out, his arms clamping over my middle savagely, “Pray Christine…do not lie to me.”

            “I cannot lie. Not anymore. I do not love him the way I do you. And…”

            His face is inches from mine, lips brushing my cheeks, fingers trailing in rapid anxious flutters over my arms. I can hardly think under such physical praise and I work to get the rest out. “And I will not marry him. I wish to be with you.”

            “Surely…you don’t mean that.”

            “I do,” I nod into him, more sure of this now than anything before. I am filled with something that has been horrifically missing from me the moment I had finally chosen Raoul. Peace. It is washing over me in now in glorious waves and I press a small kiss into the wall of muscle beneath my ear. His skin jumps as though I’ve burned it.

            Erik makes a noise, something caught between a groan and a sigh and I am immeasurably excited at what I am about to do. With him.

            “I said I couldn’t stop myself…” he warns, lips dancing over mine, tasting then retreating in patience.

            I steal the space and answer with a kiss of my own. But it is no mere tasting. It is a feverish joining and our mouths mesh as well as it appears our spirits do. I feel his hands wind around my head holding me to him and I respond in kind, grasping handfuls of his robe, pulling it wide as we stumble in the direction of what I hope is a bed.

            When my knees hit the back of it and he is now kissing my jaw, my neck, the thinness of my collarbones I am so lost to the moment with him that all I can think is how deeply I love him. How I’ve longed for this moment with him, an intense yearning that is finally coming to fruition. It is bliss. And it is agonizing seconds of wishing it would never end.

            Heart thundering in my ears, hands skimming over flesh that is now mine to claim, I let Erik push me down to the mattress and I am struck with how beautiful he feels above me. His profile of wide shoulders and molten skin beneath my palms makes a vivid picture. Enough so, I am not sad that I cannot see his face to watch the emotions play across them. I already know what he is thinking as it is what plays in my mind. A grand symphony, the likes of which cause gooseflesh to raise on our arms and we allow the music to take hold, wind around us and permeate our veins.

            “I love you Erik.”

            He breathes in my neck, skimming his nose along my jaw, pressing a deep kiss to my mouth before finally answering. “And I love you Christine. Always.”

 

**_Phantom_ **

****

            I wake to the wisps of pre-dawn clinging to my skin and the smell of rose oil. It is such a heady mixture that I lie still in the ever fading darkness, my mind as languid as the muscles of my arms and legs. Though I might attempt to express the passion and joy that I experienced over the course of spending my night with Christine, I fear that neither song nor words could express it.

            I stay in this peaceful state of mind for several minutes allowing the questing of my fingers to meet the warmth at my side and to trace little patterns over the skin I have now memorized. She feels as a silk sheet and yet, I feel as exhilarated by the closeness we now share that I can hardly believe what I did. What she allowed me to do. I blink, my eyes blurring out a pattern along the ceiling that could resemble the fourth movement of my sonata.

            The tiniest flickers of something familiar as a second skin emerge in this darkness with me and I grip Christine closer to myself to ward the feelings away. But I am helpless to stop the waves of shame that begin to wash over me from crown to toes and I stare uselessly at her face, my throat feeling as though it wishes to close permanently.

            She lies so still beside me. So very trusting of a man who has stolen her virtue without marrying her and in truth…I can hardly be called a man in the light of day. Will she regret her decision? See what she has traded for? Think to appease me anyways?

            I stiffen beside her, my heart slowly picking up until it feels a thundering undertone to the sonata that won’t leave me be and I press a thumb and forefinger to my temples, desperate to appease the ache. And the sudden feeling of inadequacy. She must still choose Raoul. It is for the best.

            Stern disapproving anger rises in my mind at the mention of the man. Particularly after the night I have shared with Christine. A night where she whispered my name and proclaimed a love that we both dared never do under the glint of sun. But I do not see now how she could have meant it. She was caught up in the moment. We both were. She will likely wake beside me and remember why she did not choose me those months ago and feel as much shame and hatred as I do.

            I can feel my hips angling to get out of bed, the loss of Christine’s side acute as her warmth splits from me and I am left with a tearing sensation. A hollowing of my soul perhaps. I am not sure of anything save that I cannot face her now. Not when her eyes find mine and she realizes what she did. With me. How our music had blended so flawlessly. I am sure her likely disgust will be my ruin above even being forced away from her.

            I stand, feeling gooseflesh sprinkle across my nakedness and creep over to the slant of the bathroom door. Blessedly, my feet feel the soft worn fabric of my robe tossed to the floor and I crouch hunting aimlessly for the underclothes I know must be near. I need to dress quickly and be gone before she wakes. It is the only way.

            “What are you doing?”

            I jump, hair pricking on the back of my neck into thistles at the sound of her voice. My hopes of a quiet escape have vanished. “Christine…it’s complicated.”

            Christine must have been awake for longer than I realized, because she is standing beside the mattresses, a sheet from our bed casually draped over her shoulders. She makes an exquisite image of a woman well-loved and I feel my stomach bottom out in response, my hands itch to touch her again. And again. And again. It is as though upon first sight I have not been sated in the least and we are back to starved animals. Feeding and living each moment on pure instincts. Emotions raw.

            The light is enough now that I realize she must see me as well as I see her. Though we are studying each other in shades of gray, it is day. She sees me. All of me.

            I am filled with dread as thick as my anticipation and I stare wordlessly as she moves across the room to meet me in its middle.

            This close I can feel her breath once more. See her eyes for the first time as blue as a cloudless sky and her skin which is equally flawless as it had felt under my fingertips.

            “Where were you going?” she lifts a brow, eyes falling to my unclothed body in an unhurried manner that makes me feel both embarrassed and surprisingly brazen. When I don’t answer quick enough, she leans into me as a lover might, her head just brushing my chin and lips tickling my collar bones. “You will not leave me.”

            I inhale softly, fighting an irrational desire to argue but realize I must be dreaming. Christine is holding me. Had looked right at me and seen it all and yet…she is still choosing me. Is this not what I have dreamed of? Wished for what has seemed a millennium? I swallow stiffly, allow a hand to rest at the base of her spine.

            To touch her now feels particularly electric as it is all the more real with the dawn brushing us in romancing peach tones.

            “I was…trying to leave.”

            She nods into me, “I thought you were. But I still don’t know why.”

            “You have every right to be angry…”

            “I am not Erik. Just tell me why.”

            I feel my eyes slip closed to the more comfortable place of darkness and night that I am accustomed to and find that words come more easily here. In this place. “I was ashamed.”

            She stiffens, drawing back so I am forced to open my eyes and face her. Face what I would have done had she not stopped me. “You were ashamed?”

            I nod, exasperation filling me in equal parts to indignation. She still does not understand, even after everything we have bared and done. “Look at me Christine! What did you think I might do come the morning? What happened between us last night…it was…”

            Her jaw locks and she lifts her chin, “Fate. Two spirits finally being made one. Do you dare deny it?”

            “No. Of course not. But it was all in the dark. Not once did we see each other’s faces. We lived in the night in some fairytale and come morning…I was afraid that…” I trail off, feeling her hands stiffen on my forearms, her nails biting.

            “You thought I would hurt you again. Reject you.”

            “It crossed my mind,” I answer honestly, my voice sounding thin as parchment and naked.

            “You would have left without a goodbye.”

            “I thought to save us both but clearly I was wrong.”

            Her brows raise, eyes so very vivid and clear of malice or disgust that I feel a lightness blossom in my chest the likes of which I had only ever tasted before. Now, I feel as though I might drown under such a torrent of foreign emotions.

 

**_Christine_ **

****

            “You now wish you’d stayed in bed with me?” I ask the question as calmly as I can manage but my voice wavers and I hate the insipid threat of tears at the backs of my eyes. If he knows how close I am to begging him to stay, he does not show it. In fact, all I can see in his brandy drenched gaze is relief. Love. And more relief.

            “I do.”

            I am up on tiptoes, pressing my mouth to his before I can stop myself and the heat of his hands and chest seem to be all over me at once.

            “I am sorry.”

            “Do not be,” I insist, stopping another apology with my lips, teasing him into obedience. He does fall silent, his hands inevitably capturing my hair as he clutches me to him. As starved man partaking of a first meal.

            Is it always to be this way? If so, I think I really wouldn’t mind.

            Just as I think Erik will take me back to the bed as we both agreed, there is an eerie hammering of fist on wood. An angry interruption of curses and a bitter greeting that sends a jolt of lead straight through my middle. Erik must feel the same because he turns to wood, his lips breaking from mine abruptly as his eyes fall to the door.

            There is little doubt as to who the visitor is at this hour. But we say nothing of him. We say nothing at all and all that breaks the taut strain between us is Raoul’s cursing anger through the thickness of a locked door. One which I know without a doubt that Erik will open. But he will not be alone. Not this time.  

            Without a word, I silently watch him walk calmly to his armoire, withdraw a pair of plain trousers and a white tunic then dress in half the time. His brows are drawn low, mouth thin and angry, but his eyes are the sort that I have had impressed into my memory of a beloved man I will share my days with. He nods at the robe at my feet, his eyes softening as I drop the sheet and obey. The fabric feels not nearly thick enough to block the anger I know that will meet me and I feel a rush of pink flood my cheeks as Erik walks to the door and finally opens it.

            There is little to be said of the shock that splashes in crimson reprieve across Raoul’s face at my state of dress…except perhaps that he is more angry than upset. Something that does not escape my notice. His eyes dash away from Erik to me and hold in a steady arc of blue fire and I stare unflinchingly at him, though my heart flounders with guilt and shame at the betrayal I have wrought. To both men. Though I have finally chosen the man of my heart, it has been too little too late. It will cost them both.

            “Christine,” Raoul works to get a swallow down his throat as his eyes dance forbiddingly to the bed at my back, his cheeks pinking to a hollow red, “Let us leave at once and I will not speak of this again.”

            I blink at him, my hands suddenly fisting at my sides, “You would forgive this?”

            I see Erik’s shoulders tense, though he does not look my way and I wish to comfort him of my choice but see no way when I am ensnared by Raoul.

            “Yes,” he answers slowly, his blue gaze finding Erik’s and holding possessively.

            “You cannot take what is not freely offered,” Erik reminds him coolly, a gentle snub of what has been clearly offered freely and I feel both heartened by the hunger in his voice and disappointed that these men will not stop until some sort of blood is shed. 

            I can sense this as though a rolling tide is coming in upon a frothing cauldron of sea and though I know they will battle, hand to hand, face to face, I still feel the desperation to stop it grip me. “I’ve made my decision Raoul. Please, leave.”

            “Leave?” he asks as though I’ve slapped him and I jerk at the true emotion baring at me from his gaze. “You want me to leave you with _him?”_

I feel my chin nodding, my bare feet chilling atop the coarse rug beneath it and I wish more than ever I could have woken to Erik at my ear whispering his melodies and pressing kisses to the soft place of my shoulder blades. If only such fantasies were not a child’s dream. “I do. I love him Raoul.”

            “I thought you loved me?” he hisses, face reddening again. Erik has turned only the slightest of bits but I can see his mouth rise at the corner in a smile, his eyes falling to the floor in a bashful admission of my statement. It is so very sweet and compelling a gesture for a man I find just as mysterious as I did the night before, that I am momentarily trapped by the normalcy of the moment. We are simply a man and a woman, no…a boy and a girl who love each other. Nothing more. Nothing less.

            “You can’t mean what you’re saying.”

            I blink at Raoul, realizing he has moved closer to me and has ignored Erik at his side altogether though the man is a hair’s breadth away, within striking distance. “I do. I have already given myself to him Raoul. In every sense of the word. It is done and I am happy. I’m so sorry…”

            Caramel brows rise above a perfect forehead and eyes that I have sworn heaven existed within darken to storm drenched skies. It is a look I have seen so little of that I frown immediately in response.

            “No…” he is shaking his head, chest rising and falling rapidly as though he has run a mile and I see Erik’s hands rolling into fists, his posture tightening. “No. You cannot mean what you are saying. He has bewitched you. Lied to you. Something.”  
            “I’m afraid not,” Erik’s voice emerges into the privacy of our duo as easily as a silken knife through butter and I feel my heart skip to my toes. “Though it feels as though I do not deserve her, she came to me of her own volition.”

            Raoul’s eyes narrow into slits, nostrils flaring as he turns his sudden anger onto Erik and I feel the tremble of fear that races through me to my core. I’ve never seen Raoul in such a state and I know the lengths to which Erik will go. The lengths to which I now know I will go. I have tasted joy. Tasted heaven and I never wish to go back, no matter how reckless or dangerous such wishes are.

            “It is over. Go home Vicomte and allow this to end peacefully.”

            Raoul snorts, “You expect me to believe this woman gave herself to _you_ , a wretched beast? Twisted and distorted? You are more demon than man. I can scarcely look upon you let alone imagine the disgust a woman must feel to touch you.”

            Hot anger rushes to my cheeks and I feel my jaw clamp angrily, “Raoul! That is enough.”

            “No,” Erik rolls a shoulder, his lips firming into a familiar mutinous line and I know in this moment that I cannot stop him. He has been gravely insulted. Even I feel the sting of retribution call to me as an acid on my tongue and I say nothing to stop him as Erik closes the gap between he and Raoul. “It is not enough.”

            “You had no right to touch what did not belong to you!”

            Erik laughs, a dark distorted one and I cringe, gripping the edges of his robe in hand, “She does belong to me little boy. Place your tale between your legs and run. It is all you have left to play at.”

            When Raoul’s hand comes back in preparation for a hit, I feel my eyes slam closed and I count the seconds of their fight until I can bear to hear it no longer.

 

**_Phantom_ **

****

            I am easily the better opponent in any other opportunity. But this brackish morning, I struggle against the phantom twinges of lack of nutrition and weakness and I find I am panting to keep up with Raoul. It is both humbling and infuriating to realize as I dodge a blow with only scant millimeters to spare. It is close enough I feel his knuckles as a breath across my cheek and I nearly fall over backwards in my attempts to dodge it.

            Countering, I find purchase in his belly, delivering several neat blows that hit the desired mark. Raoul is left defenseless and gasping for several seconds, long enough for us to land with me most assuredly on top and the little Vicomte beneath me, his hips squirming for release. It reminds me of so many times I have been at the mercy of others and it only fuels my desire to end him. To take the arrogance from his golden brow, smear the crimson that dribbles down the edge of his mouth with a tidy rope or a well pinioned pair of hands.

            I allow the palms of my hands to go to his throat and rest comfortably where his pulse fights as strongly as his body and I feel the dribbles of sweat marking their path down my cheeks. I feel my heart stutter at the sign of life under my hands that I so callously wish to end and I am struck dumb with how truly hideous I must be.

            “Pig!”

            I jerk instinctively when spit lands on my cheek and near my right eye, but am still trapped inside my mind to the trilling of a piccolo in something eerie and uncomfortable with the throb of the headache I have not managed to end. Above all else, I wish silence. Just so I can think of what I truly wish to do.

            “Erik no, please. Think this through.”

            I think of answering her, of saying that I have no intention of ending her childhood beloved, no matter how it pains me to stop, but Raoul must have sensed this because he is already rolling beneath me, toppling me sideways.

            I hit the floor with my shoulder roughly and there is a brief moment where I consider if the arm has become dislocated. But Raoul is faster than I give him credit for and he is atop me with a speed that is both surprising and loathsome. At my back now, something that I find rather hideous, I struggle fruitlessly as he jerks my arm, the injured party up and into the center of my back. Something feels as though it tears and I cry out automatically, knowing he has either ripped the muscle or truly pulled the ligament from the bone.

            “Stop! Stop now!”

            I open my mouth to tell Christine to get back. This is no place for a woman as her. She is far too fragile to be witness to this let alone possibly get injured in her defense of me. But I cannot say a word, not when I feel the slippery edge of a blade come to rest at my throat and Raoul’s lips press into the shell of my good ear.

            “Now…” he is breathing heavily, words slurring slightly as though he has been drinking and I realize belatedly I did not notice the man did smell of whiskey. Now more than ever as waves of it waft over my face. “Now it is over. You will die here on this floor. The coward and cur you are. Just a beast and nothing more and Christine will forget you.”

            His words sting more than I wish them too but I find my jaw locking and any words I might have spared for my life dying on my tongue. I’ve no wish to defend myself. Christine has chosen me. She has come to me willingly and the night we had shared will never be stolen from me, not even if I am to die for it.

            “Raoul!” Christine sounds terrified and I find my eyes holding on hers, my cheek pressing into the floor, distorting her image the slightest bits.

            Something breaks within me, something heady, strong and powerful and I blink several times as tears rush to my eyes. Christine is saying something, pleading and crying but try as I might I cannot hear her over the peel of violins and cellos that parade through my skull. A melody cries into me, something so very visceral that I desperately wish to sing it, no matter that the blade sinks deeper and nicks the skin at my throat or Christine’s eyes are watery pools of aqua fright. My mind does not seem to understand that this is my end and I hear the lovely final piece click into place within me.

            Lyrics, that both burn and console me.

            _Love never dies._

“Raoul, please. This isn’t you. You aren’t thinking. You are about to kill a man. You will never forgive yourself.”

            “If I remove him, you will remember why you picked me.”

            She is shaking her head and my song continues, halfway making its way out of my mouth in a muffled moan. It is all I can do not to belt its octaves into the rug beneath me. The pain intensifies in my head, far outweighing that of my arm or the little knife and I grimace, letting out another broken line of lyrics in a breathy exhale.

            “What are you saying?” Raoul jerks my arm and I feel my toes curl in response. Such pain to combat the pain drives me into lucidity enough to growl at him.

            “Again, we are at a crossroads where you must either kill me. Or leave. Do what you started or run. I am of no mind to wait as your little play thing until you work up the courage.”

            Anger meets me in his gaze and he tugs a little further, the joint groans, idles under the grip then pulls the rest of the way loose and I gasp, feeling the notes of the song that has tormented me shatter into shards of treble clef glass.

            “Raoul! You must remember who you are. You aren’t thinking clearly. Think of us…think of how it has been…you do not wish me. You don’t even love me either.”

            He stops, the knife loosening the slightest bit on my throat and I fall slack to the floor, eyes finding Christine’s. She has tracks of tears painting her cheeks in alabaster rivers of woe and I feel a lump thicken my throat to the point of pain. If I could remove this burden from her, I would.

            “Was none of it good Christine?”

            Her lips tighten, tears pool and I feel the incomprehensible pain of jealously twinge within me. No matter our great love, she will always feel something for him. Always wish for his happiness even if I cannot understand it.

            “Some of it was. But we are not happy, are we? Are you truly happy with a woman who loves someone else?”

            He is watching her, eyes hazing slowly with emotion, “No. No I cannot say we are happy.”

            “Then let him go. Raoul, please. Let him go. You would never do this.”

            As if someone has cut my marionette strings, Raoul loosens his hold on me and I struggle to sit up. Pain appears to be a new companion to me and I blink up at Christine as she reaches a hand to Raoul’s coated sleeve, meeting his gaze in an intensely private moment before he leaves. They say nothing. They do nothing more than stare into one another. An acknowledgement of a soul not belonging to another and then Raoul nods, leaving us both in the hollow emptiness of the wreckage surrounding us. I have not the heart nor the stamina to speak with Christine now.

 

 

**_Christine_ **

****

            It is a great many hours before Erik speaks to me again. He calls for a physician who is neither surprised to see him, nor very communicative and in short order Erik’s arm is put to rights and left in a sling.

            I stand now at the window where I’d found him the night before, my back to what I know is his sleeping form. I imagine he will be asleep for several hours longer from the pain medication but even still, the sound of his gentle breaths is a symphony to my ears and I smile in thought.

            What had happened between Raoul and Erik had been frightening and horrifically violent. It had promised all that I’d expected and more and I’d stood helpless to stop them. I’d wished for a quick ending but the minutes had felt an eternity and it is only now that I feel at peace again.

            Balmy air rises from the docks, finding its way onto the coolness of my cheeks and I feel my eyes close in surrender to the peace of it. I have not felt so relaxed and at ease in a great many months. Since the moment Raoul had come back into my life and I had sung on the stage as the prima of Populaire, I have felt nothing but chaos. Strangely the docile creature at my back who now sleeps as deeply as a babe is the very same man who captivated me in mystery, trapped me in the beauty of darkness and coaxed my heart into his.

            I feel my eyes flutter open and they rest where they wish to be. On Erik.

            He makes such a sweet picture tucked into the bed that I find my legs moving away from the serene haze of a late sunset and I perch on the edge of the mattress to study him closer. I imagine that if he had any hair left, it would be disheveled and falling atop his dark brows. This late in the day, he is sporting a dark layer of whiskers on his cheeks and though he has lost much weight since the last I’ve seen him, I cannot help but to trace the veins that delicately lace and mark the deep groves of muscle on his arms and abdomen.

            The fact that I am allowed to do such…that permission is not needed now fills me with a giddy sensation and I feel very much brazen as my hands map out the contours of my sleeping phantom.

            “You disturb my sleep mademoiselle.”

            I jerk, my hand returning to me so quickly it is as though his chest is made of molten lava rather than skin and muscle. Though his face is slightly cast in shadows the amusement and humor marking it is undeniable and I find that this version of Erik is even more attractive than the brooding darkness that I am accustomed.

            “So you do smile.”

            His lips curve becomingly into a full grin, one dimple curving into his unmarked cheek, “Indeed. I have much reason to now.”

            “I would not think so with your arm as it is. It will be useless for weeks.”

            Erik raises a brow at me, one hand seeking mine out atop the coverlet and I allow his grip to swallow mine. It feels as natural as breathing and yet my heart disagrees as it begins to sprint within my ribcage. His touch is just as intoxicating as it has always been and I am loath to ever lose it.

            “Your concern is very charming Christine,” Erik rolls to his side, though his gaze does not leave mine and he pats the space beside him with our paired hands, “Come watch the sunset with me.”

            There is something so very hypnotic about the way he asks me, the light of whiskey in his gaze that looks luminescent and gentle that I simply obey without a word, curling into him with the ease of well-known lovers. His breath is gentle on the back of my neck, a promise of the eternity he wishes with me and I can feel the heat of his stomach and chest as steady companions to my spine. Though I watch the sun dip below the balcony until only purple hues find their fingers into our room, I am feeling so very happy that I find my eyes feeling heavy.

            “Will you sleep more my love?”

            His lips find my neck and tease in a slow pattern down to my shoulder blades, “I do not think I can.”

            “What if I could help you?”

            Erik’s chuckle is surprisingly welcome and I curl deeper into him to feel the rumble of it through my ribs, “And how, pray tell little Christine will you do that?”

            “I can think of a great many things of which to tire a man enough to sleep.”

            “Will you tell me…or show me?” his voice has dropped to a seductive whisper and I roll until our faces are inches apart, his lips a scant distance from mine. I know in this moment that I have made the right decision. I love this man more than any other. More than my own life, I realize with a heady jounce of adrenaline. I will want him, crave him and strive for him all the days of my life and it is not an unwelcome revelation in the least, for I can feel his answering loyalty in the press of his body to mine. The steel his grip on my shoulder.

            When his lips find mine in the darkness and I sigh into him, answering his dance of lips with my own, I feel his resistance to me fall slack and his heart reach for mine. It is easy to answer. Easy to feel my pulse flutter in tandem as his jumps under my fingertips and his breaths come quick and stuttered between out scarcely parting lips. It is somewhere between the moment where I know where this will end and where I do not care to end it that I find bliss and I twine my arms around Erik’s neck to whisper the words into his ear.

            “I love you, Erik.”

            He shudders against me, a ragged breath grazing my shoulder and back and I clutch him closer to myself, feeling that same peace again.

            “And I love you, Christine. Forevermore.”

 


End file.
